Rise of Wolves
by Tendertooks
Summary: The Iron Throne seats its true ruler, and the new Kings of Winter have sworn their allegiance. There is no war, but if there is peace in Westeros, it can hardly be felt... But at least, Arya is coming home. future fic, book spoilers
1. Face of an Assassin

**WATCH OUT FOR SPOILERS! Since the teaser at the beginning is more spoiler-free, the one below acts as the true summary of Rise of Wolves.**

**Summary: It has been seven years since the war of Five Kings. Queen Daenerys has recovered the Iron throne from the Lannisters, and the war has been over for almost a year, yet no one can exactly call it peace. The dragons are unruly, the Dothraki and the Unsullied have nowhere to go and Daenerys' true people are too frightened of her. In the north, Winterfell is being rebuilt and the Kings of Winter have sworn fealty to the new Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon lurk ever in the fringes, Melisandre's shadows have darkened the lands, Dorn and the Ironborn are stirring, and the Wall has been breached by the Others. This is what Arya Stark comes home to.**

**A/N: I know that Game of Thrones isn't as popular but I couldn't help fanning over it since I finished the series. This fic is Arya-centric and may involve some romance, but she's much older now, with just a few quirks. This is largely not-cannon, I've added liberal amounts of pure fantasy in the way they chose to grow and live.**

**All works are rightfully George R.R. Martin's, and this is only a humble creation of a nameless, unworthy fan.**

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><p>I. Face of an Assassin<p>

ARYA

Carrying the last of her supplies, Arya rode through the cold vast lands as swiftly as she could. She knew she had to make it to Winterfell by the morn. If she did not, she would have to make a loop back towards Wolfswood to catch more game**—** a damning inconvenience.

Night was slowly settling, and the last of the winter sun cast long shadows upon the trees. There was a gentle snow beginning to fall, so she pulled her hood higher. Her brown mare Hrrivro, or Surefoot in the Braavosi tongue, was losing that famed surefootedness from the weariness and the ice.

There was a band of riders galloping down the horizon to meet her. She heard them before she saw them, hazy dark forms with large stallions, their heavy cloaks billowing behind them. They were big men, but young, with only two sporting northern long beards and bushy brows. One of them could not have been more than two and ten. She eased her mare into a trot until they arrived before her, halting but a few meters away with their weapons drawn. Hrrivro reared back, anxious.

They were Bran's scouts, she reckoned. They must have spotted her advance from miles away. But these men looked prepared to slaughter her and bury her in the snow rather than escort her back to Winterfell. It was good for Bran to be cautious, Arya measured, but it still annoyed her to have a quarrel aimed at her face so blatantly like that.

"Halt! In the names of the Kings of the North, tell us who rides."

The man who spoke was comely, with his straight nose and narrow golden eyes, but with the mop of stringy straw hair he looked more boy than man. She might even say his ratty look reminded her of a Lommy Greenhands from so long ago, but it was another woman who was measuring him now- a woman she'd become, and not just the little Arya of House Stark.

This straw-haired man and his band looked staunch and unforgiving, and the snow made it all the colder. It would not do well for Arya to give false names and reasons to be travelling towards Winterfell. Though it was now a time of peace, it was hardly a safe one; plotters, thieves and murderers were still on the prowl. She swept down her cloak and lifted her chin.

"I am Arya of House Stark," she said, her Westeros not rusty but foreign on her tongue,

"Daughter of Eddard the Stern and Lady Catelyn The Grieving Mother. I am sister to Bran and Rickon, now Kings of the North."

She had heard these titles in Braavos late, perhaps even incorrect- but in Braavos news travelled quick as wildfire, and these were the versions she loved best. Some sailors had claimed Eddard Stark had died trying to discover the secrets Jon Arryn left him. It was common knowledge now that Queen Cersei had whelped her sons in incest, common too that Eddard Stark had been a loyal and just man. If only they had thought to learn the truth quicker, she thought bitterly. And the fate of her mother- pain still touched the no one Arya had become when she had learned more of the Red Wedding, about the way Catelyn's fingers came bloody from her face and how they had dishonoured her body in the waters of the Green Fork.

These titles were useless against these suspicious men, she knew. They were tough, armed to the teeth and vicious by the look of them, and only the straw-haired leader seemed highborn. Upon seeing her face the men burst out in laughter.

"What folly is this? We know no living Arya Stark, only of the Princess Sansa- at court by the Iron Throne. That name is folly, woman, for the real Arya Stark died during the war of the Five Kings. Last we heard she was an ugly whelp**—** and certainly no Braavos assassin."

When Arya had heard that Bran and Rickon were not only alive but were planting foot back in the ruins of Winterfell calling themselves King of the North, she had allowed a thrill of pure happiness shiver to her very bone. Everything else came as a blur as she swept herself up and left for a ship bound Westeros as fast as she could.

But in her haste and determination she forgot that Lady Arya of Stark was a skin of long ago- that the engraved leather she was wrapped in was Braavosi, that the cloak and felts were Tyroshi, that the wide belt strapped on her leg holstered a dozen daggers of different types and sizes. Even her face betrayed her now, having shaped up much differently from their horsey beginnings. A true bannersmen of her father will doubtless see the resemblance of Stark on her face, but it had been seven years and she didn't know how much had changed and who remained. She could show them Needle, the castle-forged blade her half-brother Jon had given her, but nobody knew of it, like nobody knew of her.

It does not matter, she told herself. I am still a wolf.

She smiled at them, " I have grown Braavosi, that is true, but I owe fealty to my brother, not a wound. I am not an assassin."

The last part was a lie, but she could lie convincingly now, and read the other's face as clear as if there were words smacked onto their foreheads. She could see the distrust plain on their faces, the man in the lead twitching his nose like he would soon rather throw her in a ditch.

A man in the rear, an older one with huge shoulders and a fur-hemmed coat said, "There was an Arya Stark Bolton who hanged after that spider brought evidence against her. What makes you any different?"

"Show me to Bran and he can prove it to you."

"King Bran to you, wench," said a man with a bow, "and I'd sooner puncture you with my cock than a quarrel, so it's not likely you'll get to see him."

Her hand was already on Needle but a new voice broke out, hoarse and velvet deep, "Wait."

He had been judging her from the back, but now his white destrier trotted up to see her.

She knew him at once, now that he had shown himself. "Gendry."

His name hadn't slipped from her lips unbidden, she had said them loudly to prove she had ties with Westeros that the other men would less likely believe. But his presence shocked her. From the looks of it Gendry had grown two heads taller than when he had been a smith for those Harrenhal scum. He had grown wider too, and all muscle and bone. His face had more angles now, gaunt and lined from hardships. He was still thick of neck, with eyes just as blue and hair black as midnight even in the gentle snow.

She nodded to him stiffly, "Gendry, it is still a pleasure to see a friendly face."

She had thought it was best to don a Lady's courtesies if only to prove her highbirth, but it was an obvious mistake. Gendry only frowned. He looked her up and down, suspicion and hope flickering on his face, "The girl looks as fierce as the 'Arry I knew, but far too womanly to be Weasel as well."

"Obviously these last seven years slipped by your bull-headedness unnoticed."

"She could have been no more than eight when she left. You do not look ten and five."

"She was ten then, and I'm seventeen now."

The man with the straw hair fidgeted, impatient in the cold, "Are we doing sums now? Gendry, is she the wench or not?"

Gendry flanked her mare with his stallion so he could see her better. He then circled around her as if he were gearing her up. Arya couldn't really tell what he was seeing- the last time she peered into a looking glass she had seen a tough Braavosi with budding breasts and a small waist, a defiant expression, strong thick eyebrows, wild dark hair and narrow icy eyes. She no longer looked like a boy, and some even called her too pretty to be an assassin, but that was before she killed them anyway.

"When Arry and I rode together from Harrenhal we went with a sort of breakfast," Gendry said with his low voice, "Who was he?"

He is testing me, thought Arya, and with stupid questions too.

"His name was Hot Pie and he was definitely more of a dessert than a breakfast." We left him baking sweet breads in a run-down cottage during the war. He left the pack, right before you did.

Gendry nodded, but kept his face blank, "We met each other leaving King's Landing because**—**"

"**—**Yoren was going to take us to the Wall but got himself killed."

"When Weasel was in an acorn dress, we were down by the smithy. What did-"

Arya's patience ran short, "You know who I am now, so take me to Bran, you stupid."

"You didn't answer," Gendry said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I said I looked like an acorn tree. You said**—**" she suddenly felt a hot flush on her cheeks, which made her angry, "we got to a grapple and I beat you down."

Some of the men laughed at that. Gendry took one last fleeting look at her face before he rode back towards the other men. "We should escort the princess back ourselves, Harrow. She looks to be the true thing."

The straw-haired man named Harrow still looked at her doubtfully, "You take rear guard with Hodgel and Rut. If we take this damn wench we'd best still be careful. I've known many a Braavosi treacherous, and woman more treacherous still."

She smiled pleasantly at Harrow, but her eyes remained cold, "If I was a Braavos assassin you would not even be talking about treachery. In fact you would not be talking at all."


	2. The Bastard and the Snow

**Summary: It has been seven years since the war of Five Kings. Queen Daenerys has recovered the Iron throne from the Lannisters, and the war has been over for almost a year, yet no one can exactly call it peace. The dragons are unruly, the Dothraki and the Unsullied have nowhere to go and Daenerys' true people are too frightened of her. In the north, Winterfell is being rebuilt and the Kings of Winter have sworn fealty to the new Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon lurk ever in the fringes, Melisandre's shadows have darkened the lands, Dorn and the Ironborn are stirring, and the Wall has been breached by the Others. This is what Arya Stark comes home to.**

**A/N: Yes, no Arya, I'm sorry. Although I will reiterate this will be mostly Arya's story, I thought it would do well to feature the other characters that will play a part as well as to imitate the original series. It may seem spread out at first but in the future this pack of wolves will unite. Arya will make sure of that. Please note that this may also have some Arya/Otherpairings, perhaps a bit of incest, age differences, lesbians, gays, dark morbid stuff... I won't focus on it, but just as a warning. **

**All works are rightfully George R.R. Martin's, and this is only a humble creation of a nameless, unworthy fan.**

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><p>II. The Bastard and the Snow<p>

JON

"Lord Snow, do you still think this is wise?"

Jon turned stiffly, or as much as his black leather armor would allow. His companion Kormick was almost blue in the face, shivering fool that he was in the snow. Jon studied him closely. Even from afar, it was clear Kormick was not born to be part of the Night's Watch. He was a potter's boy, slim and frail, with a thin, sickly face and stringy black hair that fell long and loose against his jaw. He was about four years younger than Jon, always fretful and so obviously a craven. It was surprising that he hadn't shat his way out of being a troops' man, what with this kind of mission.

Jon had to admit, it was a dangerous, deadly mission. Even from his tall horse he could feel the unforgiving cold of the snow underneath them. The ice had even sent prickles of pain to his very bones. He had to grip the reins of his horse tighter with his gloves just to feel that he hadn't lost any of his fingers yet.

Jon watched tufts of white breath drift from his mouth onto the miserable night above them. It had been days of nothing but this- the bleakness, the white expanse of silence and the woodlands reeking of stillness and death. But they hadn't come across the Others yet. He shuddered, hoping that his men- some being the last few Crows and the others Bran's own bannersmen, had not seen it. He was commander, and it wouldn't do to have the Lord Commander quivering at the feet of despair. Even without Jon's fear, they were already close to breaking, having had three nights without any decent fowl, forced to eat nothing but bark, frozen mead and snippets of leather. They were close to drinking their own piss, he knew, and still they hadn't found a trace of that goddamn village.

Ghost's white flank flashed against the dark wood beyond them for just a moment, red eyes slinking back into the whiteness that was the snow. Jon hurried onward, Kormick at his side.

They had been following Ghost for almost three weeks now, and though the direwolf was moving stronger than ever, many of Jon's men began to mutter that it might have been easier to follow a real ghost into the abyss. Jon knew the mutinous looks when he saw them. It was clear they wanted very badly to break out and return home to Winterfell. But Ghost acted like he was pursuing a very heady trail. And Jon would not hear of turning back.

"The Wolfswood is a den to the wolf," he said lowly to Kormick, "Ride on, I say."

He could feel Kormick's bulging eyes even if he wasn't looking. The man fretted, "But the men are cold, sir**—**"

"**—**Do you think I don't know that?" Jon snapped, "Who is your Lord Commander? Do as I say."

Kormick bit his tongue and looked away. Jon kept his face expressionless. He was used to his commanding voice now. Perhaps a few years ago, when Jon was still green, he worried about whether or not his men would like him. But he knew now that having an iron fist in the situation was more important than his men simply _liking _him. If he couldn't show them his own strength, courage and certainty-(no matter if he didn't feel strong, courageous or wise) then they had nothing to hold on to. His harshness was necessary to bring out their own courage and strength. He would only have to endure the blatantly murderous looks from time to time.

He wasn't worried**—** he could live without their love.

A murder of crows rustled through one of the trees and flew high above them just as a chill ran down Jon's spine. Ghost turned to him, his red eyes gleaming, before stalking forwards again.

The Others were close. Ghost could feel it and so could he, that strange heavy feeling and the disconcerting knowledge that they were being watched. The winter blanket was like an assassin's expressionless face, waiting for their traitorous vulnerability to strike at.

One month ago, Bran's scouts had lost track of the Others that flocked far into the Wolfswood. There were a few towns a ways off the edges, fortified by the houses Glover, Ironsmith and Locke who were duly warned. They had gathered their armies around them and crafted stronger palisades, built to rebuff the dark horde with the special instruction of Maester Samwell in Winterfell. But across the Wolfswood was the small isolated town of Greybark which had no noble house behind them. They were a simple folk, only having traded with the neighboring Bear Island for the past two winters and the summer before. They were still Winterfell's but were practically defenseless. Ravens had been sent to warn Greybark of the danger despite no knowledge of scholared men in the area, and true to suspicion, none had deigned to reply. The north lords in the surroundings gave only ill news about the fate of the village, with their dwindling supplies and their sparse, unfriendly and plain folk. Having the Others roam freely in the woods was not going to make their lives any easier.

"Lord Snow!"

Jon pulled the reins and came to an abrupt stop. He heard his forty-odd men gasping and muttering behind him, and looked on with a tight frown.

They had finally come to the village. It had been buried waist -deep in a deep red-brown frost. The blood, and there was plenty of it, spread and splattered all across the village in large unrestrained patterns on the snow. Some wooden houses had been torn off or caved in, half buried, with several of the doors on its last hinges. A few sturdy doors looked like it had been dragged across town. Bruised and battered stalls and boxes and barrels had all fallen lopsided. Carriages and pushcarts filled with frozen fruits lay discarded among the ruin. A boy's wooden knight lay crushed by the foot of Jon's horse.

"No men," muttered Kormick under his breath, "no women no children. Nuthin's here, nuthin's movin', my lord. Nuthin' but ghosts."

The only moving thing was Ghost himself, watching them eerily as they came towards the silent town. But what Kormick said was not necessarily true. Nothing was moving, but plenty of small, discarded limbs and body parts poked out from underneath the ice.

"Be silent," warned Jon. He swept through the wreckage with his eyes. What unnerved him the most were the lack of actual corpses.

There was a clearing at the center of the village, but it was bare and empty. Perhaps the Townshall had once stood there, but now only the frame and stone foundation was all that remained. Jon saw a movement by the stones. A young boy began crawling, his lower half underneath the red frost.

"A survivor, mi'lord," said Jansenn Noose, of Winterfell.

Jon nodded, "Men holding lit torches must be evenly spread out amongst us. Kornick, take fourteen other men and search the perimeter. Be wary of anything. Jansenn, take ten men and search the ruin. Look for any useable materials and survivors. Look for food," then he kicked his horse to a gentle trot, "The rest of you, with me."

Jon rode carefully around the rubble and the stained frost. His horse was being difficult, stamping its foot and refusing to go any further into the ice carnage. The other horses were making neighs of distress. Jon had an uncanny feeling about it, but it couldn't be helped. He'd need some supplies for his men, and as his duty, he had to at least check if the boy would make it alive.

Jon tucked his furred cloak under his chin and swept down his horse.

The trapped boy was meters away from him and he was something strange. He kept moving, and crawling as silently as ever. He was maybe five, with straight dark hair and a pale complexion smattered with blood. As Jon came closer he realized the problem. The boy was not buried. He was moving and gesturing like a dying worm because his lower half had been cleanly torn off. His bloodied torso stained the ground with gel-like substance. Jon reached for Longclaw on the flank of his horse just as the boy looked up, mouth wide in a silent scream, with blazing white-blue eyes glowing.

Jon lopped his head off cleanly with his sword. The torso continued to wriggle, his rolled head continued to scream.

An unimaginable cold spread amongst them all.

"Call the men back together here," Jon ordered instantly as he hurried back on his saddle, "Take out your torches. Regroup! Drop what you're doing and regroup, damn you!"

He slid Longclaw back into its scabbard and drew out a torch. It was of a different design, longer and leaner almost like a sword, but strung with several more oilcloths for more firepower. The other men began to ride towards them, their torches all lit. Behind them, in the darkness of the woods, Jon could faintly see shapes and shadows with their blank blue eyes.

"Sh-shit!" yelled Kormick.

The horses began to act up, neighing and rearing. Jon took iron control of his own horse, with an almost brutality that rivalled his fear. "Master your horses, men!"

_They've been waiting for us_, Jon thought to himself. It was uncanny, how the Others seemed to be planning more dutifully than a deadened corpse had any right to. But here they were, stalking towards them from all angles, corpses that had been the very men in the village. Jon's own men began yelling at him, asking him what to do, yelling to shut up, to come closer, to run.

"Light what's left of the village on fire," called Jon instantly, "It will keep them at bay. Find the ale, pour it all**—** all of it! Now!"

He spotted an opening in the Others' formation where the woods was a bit wider and the dead men far too few, but he knew the horses would never run towards them in that fashion. He'd have to break them up some other way.

As the Others began closing in, Ghost bounded to the front, snapping and snarling.

"Ghost!" Jon yelled loudly, a warmth spreading to his very veins, and with no hesitation the direwolf attacked.


	3. King of Winter

III. King of Winter

**Summary: It has been seven years since the war of Five Kings. Queen Daenerys has recovered the Iron throne from the Lannisters, and the war has been over for almost a year, yet no one can truly call it peace. The dragons are unruly, the Dothraki and the Unsullied have nowhere to go and Daenerys' true people are too frightened of her. In the north, Winterfell is being rebuilt and the Kings of Winter have sworn fealty to the new Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon lurk ever in the fringes, Melisandre's shadows have darkened the lands, Dorn and the Ironborn are stirring, and the Wall has been breached by the Others. This is what Arya Stark comes home to. **

**A/N: Hello! I'm sorry to disappoint again, but this isn't an Arya chapter... But the next one is. ;) As per comments, I will limit Sansa, but she is a Stark though I dislike her I think there is still great potential in her character. I downgraded what would be chapters of Dany and Cersei in lieu of keeping focus on the Stark children. Please enjoy! And should you choose to favorite the story or put it on your "alerts" list, please drop me a line. I'd love to hear what you think! **

BRAN

Bran's blue-green gaze was faraway, unfocused; posture so rigid one could almost believe he was a sculpture on the throne, unmoving. But then he blinked and his eyes regained their glimmer and brightness.

Winterfell's hall was bustling with all sorts of people and smelled of newly cut pine, sweat, mead, garlic, and the cold. Bran could never really explain how something could smell "cold", but it did, and it nearly froze his damn nose off, too.

He surveyed the surroundings. Bran had instructed that the great hall should be the first thing to be rebuilt so it could be utilized as a townshall, a tavern and a sleeping shelter for all the smallfolk around Winterfell. This new hall was larger than the first, thirty paces wide and fifty paces long. The wooden beams had just been hauled up and secured, and most of the mortar on the walls were already dry and sturdy. The cobblestone floor was new, temporarily piled with furs, cushions and quilts. He'd heard one of his bannersmen, Alric Hornwood compare the place to an indoor Tyroshi bazaar- cramped, noisy and chaotic. And it was chaotic even at the end of the day- a haphazard mix of soldiers carrying in equipment, carpenters in the corner drinking their mead, masons pouring over scrolls, drafts and arithmetic, children sewing new trousers by the fire and other servants trying to put things into order. Rhythmic thumping and pounding could be heard faintly from the other rooms of the castle.

Bran was seated on a large bronze and iron throne at the end of the Hall, touching the iron wolf heads snarling from each handrest. It was a seat elevated with several steps; heavy, guarded and rigid -characteristic of any northern man. If Bran felt uncomfortable, he did not show it. On the steps below him sat his castellan, Jojen Reed.

Bran shook his head at the man, "The falcons don't see 'nything more, Jojen."

Jojen sighed, rubbing the ache on the bridge of his nose while Meera stepped up beside them, "s'alright Jojen," she soothed, patting him on the head as if he were a pet, "We've done enough scouting anyway."

Bran smiled, thinking Meera looked five years younger than she had any right to be. In the time he'd spent with the Reed siblings, Bran had watched Jojen's heavy wisdom overpower his features, so that even if he was not more than twenty, his eyes had the look of a man past thirty, gloomy and troubled all the time. In contrast, Meera's tiny crannogman stature and sunny disposition made her seem like a child.

"I'm still Warden of the North, and they're close to Winterfell, Meera," cautioned Bran, brushing a lock of hair away from his face, "We have to monitor their movements."

He caught Meera glancing at the top of his head, where a tuft of his auburn hair had turned sandy-white. He'd had other changes too, Bran admitted. After being cooped up with Coldhands for nearly four years and then travelling across the north for three, he'd lost the last of his baby fat and gained many inches of length on his body. He would have been tall if he still had use of his feet. Bran had also developed sinewy muscles on his upper torso for all the effort it took carrying his lower weight. The strangest development though, were the strange green rings around the blue of his eyes.

Bran brought his hand down to where Summer lay sprawled beside him, and the direwolf began licking at his fingers enthusiastically. "And more troubling," Bran said, frowning, "I couldn't find Jon anywhere. He must sense the cold by now."

"Jon Snow has his dragonglass, his torches, his men. He can take care of himself," Jojen replied solemnly, "I am more worried about your people in the logging camp, Your Grace."

The title swiftly made the hair at the back of Bran's neck stand on end.

"Stop saying that!" Bran growled loudly, "You know I hate it when you say that."

Jojen blinked, but his face remained the same. "You should be glad I'm not calling you Summer."

Realizing how his outburst had probably frightened Meera, Bran looked away. His strange new temperaments were quite well known, but it still scared him as well as all who knew him. He was ashamed of his lack of self control, that he could not taper the unnecessary outbursts as often as he should, and also because he had no way of controlling them while he slept. He could never quite forget that night when he'd glimpsed Meera and Jojen's distraught, bloodied expressions as they shook him awake from all his growling, snapping, howling and snarling.

"Sorry," he said, "Y-you know it's difficult having so many skins."

An awkward silence prevailed until Meera ventured, "Speaking of your other skins, what of the falcon you sent to the Kingsroad, with those rangers?"

Bran's lips tightened as he leaned back, his blue-green eyes unfocused again. Remaining in his glazed state he spoke to them, "Almost here. They brought the Braavosi."

"No clue who he is?"

Bran focused on Jojen, "I missed that conversation. Still, best to ride out and greet them by the gate."

"You could wait for them here."

"What, in this grand reception?" he gestured to the packs of children and smallfolk walking about, "If this Braavosi is a danger, best he see me where I could be feared."

He did not have to tell Summer to get up. The grey direwolf simply stretched out on the steps at his feet. Bran easily pulled himself off his chair and settled on the furred back, rubbing the sharp shoulder planes of his wolf as if to thank him. He did not need any holsters or straps for Summer's back, and although it often took a minute to climb up and settle, Summer never minded. He felt complete on him, like his own limbs were returning. Summer felt that satisfaction too.

Summer had grown. The Three-Eyed Crow had told them mature direwolves reached the size of male boars, but Summer was different. He refused to stop growing. Now he resembled a shaggy, fully grown bear on all fours, than a wolf. When Summer stood, he towered over the crannogsmen siblings.

"Your coat, Bran."

Meera tossed it to him as Summer walked out of the hall with Bran astride, one hand on Summer's long fur and the other settling the coat on his shoulders. Nobody dared block the wolf's path.

Outside, the night wind blew solid icicles upon Bran's auburn and white hair. Large torches were roaring along the perimeter of the unfinished walls. Worksmen and troops who spotted him lowered their heads humbly, but Bran greeted one or two and asked after their work. Nobody could really feel at ease while he was on his favourite mount though, for Summer was almost as tall as any of the horses and twice as wide- a beast with jaws glinting in the torchlight. When they passed the makeshift stables and the kennels, the horses began to neigh and balk while the hounds whined. Summer ignored them, prowling languidly towards the mouth of the gate, Jojen and Meera walking on either side of him.

His rangers came first, making their way across the sprawling road. The Braavosi rode well enough, but along the pass his mare began to skitter and halt- seeing the direwolf on the other end was no small fright. The Braavosi chose to dismount and give his reins to another man before walking on foot the rest of the way. Harrow and two of his men followed on foot as well.

"Hail, King of Winter."

It was a woman's voice, Bran realized, and with such directness that he could not help feel the mocking tone underneath. He frowned coldly, looking down at her, but the woman only stepped closer to his direwolf and brought down her hood.

She was a pretty enough girl, a little older than him with a long face, thick eyebrows and slate-grey eyes. Her long brown hair fell down her shoulders in tangles. There was something about her face that was strange but he couldn't put his finger on it- and it troubled him, especially the way she was smiling.

She was at ease, he realized, and failed even to bow like so many of his visitors did. The glinting knives on her leg caught his attention. Bran felt annoyed at the sudden intrusion, at the small air of arrogance this woman dared. Linked to his emotions, Summer began to growl.

"Hail," he said, cold as winter, "Are you friend or foe, stranger?"


	4. The Faceless One

**A/N: In lieu of travelling for a week, I decided to give a hearty chunk (more than twice as long!) off to you before my journey. I'll try to write when I'm abroad but I doubt that without my notes I'll be able to pull off such a thing, so expect a slightly longer wait for this one. I've also addressed some comments signed reviewers have given me. If you want answers, please find me a way to reply to you. :) I'm quite stumped with the grander scheme of things so suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Boy, I wonder how R.R. Martin does it! **

**I also took the liberty in altering Arya's speech a bit to enhance the idea that she hasn't grown up like the lady she is supposed to be. (If you notice grammatical errors on her part, that was intentional.) I imagine her accent to be a dash bit French or Hispanic- well, coz it's **_**Braavos**_**. I disclaim all work. Melisandre's making me do it. I **_**swear**_**!**

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><p>VI. The Faceless One<p>

ARYA

Arya wondered if her toes were already black with frostbite, or whether the cold feet came from nerves. Winterfell certainly was colder than she remembered, but she was a summer child, as old Nan used to say, so she hadn't had the slightest clue of what the brunt of winter could really mean.

Arya kept her face blank even as she looked upon the monster of a direwolf straight in the face. Summer was fierce, his eyes as chilly as his master's. She couldn't believe she had held him as a pup by the scruff of his neck so long ago. She measured Summer's jaws silently from her place and deduced that with one hearty bite he could tear her down, torso and all. His jaws were bared, wet, sending gobs of gleaming wolf spit on the frozen ground. Arya distractedly realized that even a tooth off this giant would fetch a handsome price in the bazaars at Fahlarin.

She sighed, glaring back up at her own fifteen year old brother- a broad-shouldered boy, strong and dour and rigid, even when his legs looked thin and frail.

"We used to play pranks on Sansa together," she said, if he needed more proof, "putting frogs under her bed quilts."

The wind sent some of his whitish locks across the top of his head like a starburst. But the boy only stared down at Arya coldly.

"You look like anything but a Stark," he said.

Arya grinned, unsure of what to make of that.

"Try living in Braavos for a year, brother, and I'll laugh at the tan lines you'll bring home."

He gave her a long, inconclusive gaze. Then there was only silence. The rangers beside her began to fidget just as much as the two people whom accompanied Bran. Around them, the smallfolk of Winterfell began to crowd, regarding them with a mixed brand of curiosity and fear. But whether the fear was of the direwolf or herself was anyone's guess.

She kept herself still as a rock and as quiet as a shadow as she was taught. She kept her gaze towards Bran's own, unwavering sight, even with Summer keeping a growl low in his throat.

"—If I may, your Grace," and suddenly Arya was looking at Gendry kneeling next to her, chiseled jawline taut and strong, "This one is the same one I travelled with, I'm sure of it."

_So they had discussed me befor_e, Arya thought, but listened as Gendry continued, "Harwin correctly identified her then, and—"

"I've heard this story enough, and I know she is my sister." Then he stared straight at Arya again, eyes even brighter and paler than before, "But she is not a Stark."

The men stirred.

Arya caught her breath. Not a Stark? How could he say that, the face of Eddard Stark and maybe Lyanna plain on her face? The years they'd had together, sharing milk? The same blood ran down their veins, they were brought to life in the same womb! Her cheeks reddened in anger. Bran seemed to notice it, but continued flatly, "What is your purpose here, Arya of Braavos?"

She opened her lips but her mind was in a whirl. Was it the rage or the terror that made her unable to say anything? Arya never considered having to answer for her own name. She never considered being taken in as a stranger. After all these years she had thought Bran would not have changed, would not have aged— that he would come running to her at the bright age of six with open arms and yes, walking on his own two feet! It was a childish dream, but one that couldn't be shaken off in all the years of her silent dark dreaming. What a fool she was!

_I want to come home, Bran. I want everything to be the way it was._

She glared up at him, "Everyone wants a place 'ta call home."

Annoyed, she noticed that her street-talk accent came up thicker when she was feeling cross. Bran was provoking her. But Arya also found truth in his eyes. This wasn't the home Arya wished for, and that was something she would never return to either. When Arya left for King's Landing about eight years ago she had left a home filled with smiling, familiar friends. She could picture that life clearly in her head. It would be warmer than it was now, even for a place up in the north. Old Nan would be knitting in the courtyard with Rickon tumbling on the gravel, Bran would be at archery practice with Jon, Robb and Theon as well as Rodrick Cassel their master-at-arms, Sansa would be reading or painting or doing needlework with Septa Mordane, Hodor would be crying after Beth and Bullwick and the other castle hands would play the latest prank, father would be discussing serious grownup things with Maester Luwin and maybe even mother, if she was not too busy running the castle... And she, Arya Underfoot would be sneaking away to climb trees or hide under carriages again.

But Arya could see Winterfell as it was now, even from the mouth of the gate. The atmosphere was different, the castle had been all but destroyed. The stone structures and the other sturdier buildings were still there, but the scenery had changed as violently as the smells and the noises had. The faces were different too— regarding her with a blank stare and one or two with open suspicion. There were many of them, but they all looked the same to her. There was nobody left, not even old Nan who'd outlived most of the other castlefolk. Now, only Bran and Gendry truly knew her.

Perhaps not even them.

Arya gave a quick glance towards the two smaller people in front of her- one lanky boy who looked much older than Bran and a young lithe brunette who was probably his little sister. They were as silent as the grave, just like the rest of the men watching her. She observed Summer's baleful stare distastefully.

Finally Bran asked, "What were you doing at Braavos?"

"You think I went there by choice?" She snapped back.

If Bran felt bothered by her foul temper, he didn't show it, "I did not ask what purpose it served being there. I asked for your occupation."

Arya was still bubbling with defiance, but knew that he was only being cautious. She'd heard. After being crippled, targeted by a murderer, abandoned by his pack, betrayed by Theon Greyjoy— after the burning of Winterfell by a bannersman of their own father's, Bran surely had misgivings.

Arya gave the usual answer without a bat of an eyelash, "I had plenty 'ta occupy me, Your Grace," she spat, intoning the last two words with a little scorn, "Before I embarked for Westeros I'd been a hired hand and adventurer for the excavations near Donnomor, as well as a trader of gems, silks and spices in Fahlarin."

Arya wasn't sure how much Bran knew of Braavos to hear about the smaller towns and areas, but she didn't care. She'd been well traveled and had collected a number of odd skills through them. She was merely sharing a part of it.

Bran gave another withering look, regarding her with even more silence. Some of the castlefolk muttered to themselves and began dispersing, apparently bored with all the staring and quiet questioning. Arya was getting a little bored herself (despite the great view of monstrous jaws), and wanted to scratch an ache under her boot. Just as she was about to bend down to relieve it (would a king be insulted? Arya wanted to see) Summer stirred, his paws digging into the ice.

Bran lifted his chin, saying, "You are a liar."

She shifted. The others around her shifted as well, and she could feel Gendry at her side tensing. Arya remained where she was. She dared not even look at anyone's face. The direwolf moved again, and for one blood-curling moment she thought she could feel his jaws moving around her waist, but Summer was walking back towards the castle. She could still hear Bran saying, "A very good liar, too."

With those as parting words, Bran rode back towards the stronghold. Arya flushed again, only barely insulted. Perhaps if she'd been raised as a lady then she would make a righteous fuss, but she was more accustomed to being a bar wench or a silk trader or even a clam seller that his back meant nothing to her. Though Arya _was_ disappointed in Bran. Just because he had his terrifying direwolf with him didn't mean he could treat her with such cruelty. She wondered for a moment if Nymeria would have grown to be that strong, that fierce. But her wolf would probably snap her in two with her jaws if Arya did find her still alive.

Arya felt a flash of annoyance again. Bran had left her in an awkward situation. Had she been accepted or banished? One couldn't say, and the people still around had no clue what to do with her. So Arya collected her wits and began marching towards the castle after him. Nobody stopped her. Not even Gendry or the other scouts. Judging from the noise behind her, they may have even gone back off towards Winterfell's outer wall.

Instead, the two small people she had observed earlier had come to walk on either side of her.

"There are many things Bran is," said the woman, who looked much younger than she sounded, "and being trusting is not one of them. He's had a rough time, as I'm sure you have, princess."

"Don't call me that." Snapped Arya.

"Then what do I call you? "

'Arry, Weasel, Nan, Squab, Wolf Bitch, Salty, Sal, Cat— what did it matter? She'd had a million other names since then. Those names were the makings of her, certainly, but none of those girls were her. She had always been hiding and had rather become good at it. So good in fact, that one touch of her fingertips to her face and she could change into another nobody, another face in the crowd, another canvas of emotions that didn't have to be hers.

But she was feeling something now, a sort of anguish that only Arya of house Stark could feel. She had never felt so lost as when she stepped foot back in Winterfell. She didn't belong here, that was certain. Bran was not her brother. That younger brother was open and honest, malleable and funny, ate frozen berries with her and taught her how to climb trees. This boy was just a northman, closed up, suspicious, bitter. This little fanclub beside her were just as strange as he was. She shouldn't have come.

"We don't have to call her anything," said the man sternly, "although that may be a little troublesome."

Arya did not say anything to that as they walked on.

"Pardons for the disrespect," added the man, "I am Jojen Reed and this is my older sister Meera. We are the heirs of Howland Reed, a loyal bannersman of Stark."

Still, Arya said nothing. Jojen didn't seem to mind, "Forgive your brother. He is much harder and colder to strangers now than ever before, and Summer takes on after him."

"He's in a right spin about being The Cripple King," Meera whispered so conspiratorially that Arya was surprised Bran hadn't turned and glared, "many like to call him that behind his back, and I'm starting to think sharing souls with Summer can't be any good for your health—"

"More importantly," interrupted Jojen, "he feels that dark magic from you. As I do."

And then Jojen stepped in front of Arya, blocking her path. Arya stopped, her hand suddenly itching for a knife. But she could not help but look surprised. Jojen had the greenest, saddest gaze she had ever seen. His face may have been a little good looking if not for the perpetually stressed, thin look he had about him. He shook his head, muttering, "Yours is a black magic fed by cruelty and death. You have blood on your hands, and Bran feels it thick as poison running deep into your core." His gaze continued to pierce her thoughts, as if seeking for a response inside her. Arya abruptly looked away.

"I have seen death," she measured.

"No," said Jojen, "You have _been_ death."

_Valar morghulis, s_he replied silently.

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><p>It was already dark outside when Arya had had her bath and darker still when she had her meal in the keep along with Bran, Meera, Jojen and the rest of the castle household and smallfolk. After her first encounter, she had not been so keen to see Rickon, so she had felt both guilty and relieved when she learned that he was busy directing a logging camp nearby.<p>

Arya didn't know how much insult she had given her own house that evening. She did not take the Ladies garments that were offered. She did not allow them to take her things. She did not wear the sigil of her house, and she did not linger long where she felt unwelcome. They had dinner in the great hall among the servants and the other workers, separated only because they were at the foot of the throne with the slightly finer rugs. Bran made no other interactions with her other than to offer her the salt. Jojen and Meera for their part chatted amiably but also forcefully, and though she appreciated the small kindness, she did not wish to have them run her through a background check.

She left the hall straight after Bran excused himself. The bitter wind had been a welcome for Arya as she stepped onto the inner bailey and made her way out. It was a long walk, avoiding all of the construction areas, lathes and pots of cement and tar as well as the workmen camps settled outside. Torches lined the walls, keeping the stars away from view. A light snow had fallen, but she had taken all her things including her cloaks, so she was warm. Distantly she could hear the wolves call out to each other from the wood.

Knocking on the smithy's door was the hardest thing she'd had to do that night. She had paused outside, tracing the wooden knobs and grains with her fingers, dilly-dallying until the snow almost came up to her ankles. She wondering what on earth she was there for. When she finally summed up the courage to knock, it took only a moment for the shuffle inside to settle and the tall, black-haired man to appear.

"Oh. You're here."

It was much more a question than a statement, but Gendry truly looked flabbergasted to see her.

Arya pushed her way inside without a second thought. Mostly it was to get out of the cold, but also because she wondered how the outer structures of the castle faired. His little workshop was divided into three rooms, with the furnace and the anvil on the farthest end next to a vent and several tables. The workshop and dining area was the second room with which the entrance was attached, and a storage room was on the other side. Inside it smelled like brass and iron and sweat, and was sweltering hot compared to the rest of the castle.

"I had a feeling you were also the smith."

"Princess, you shouldn't be here," Gendry said from behind her with his deep voice. She ignored him, looking towards the smithing tools with interest.

"Can you imagine me sleeping _there_," she murmured, "with that cold fish of a brother and those frozen up rooms with those strangers? What a lark." It was ironic, she thought, since the people she considered strangers certainly thought of her as one... when Winterfell was supposed to be _her_ home.

Gendry walked past her and began to tidy up the workspace in the middle room. He had been doing this for some time now, Arya had been listening to him from her spot on the doorstep.

His gentle blue gaze fell on hers, "It's funny. Ever since I knew you you'd been searching for a way home. "

"Trust me, I'm still looking."

Gendry shrugged and continued to clear out the table. Arya took the time to observe him more carefully. He'd taken his cloaks off since the last time they'd met, and now stood wearing a sleeveless vest and dark, dirty trousers underneath. He had been sweating for some time, if the glimmer on his muscles were anything to go by.

Arya had been surprised when she first saw him down by the Kingsroad, and now even more surprised that she hadn't noticed him on the onset. He had certainly grown into a fine specimen, as if he had the blood of a noble— handsome, with a straight spine, wide shoulders, a strong jaw and clear blue eyes that reminded her of the summer sky. His face was an honest face, rough from the stubble and tired, but it was just as strong and comely as ever.

She remembered the past in a rush. That night in the brothel, her lace and silk clothes from Tansy, the smell of old booze and the creaking of the rooms, and Tom Sevenstrings kissing another girl at the end of every verse he sang. He remembered Gendry, threatening and looming even then, growling _"she's my sister, leave her be,"_ to that old fat man asking about the name of 'his little peach.' Remembered the way Gendry's eyes glimmered in the candlelight, furious, and how her heart had skipped a beat. Had it been in fear? _"Why did you say that? you're not my brother." "That's right. I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to mi'lady high."_

Arya looked away, disgusted with herself.

"Mind if I sleep here tonight?" she asked abruptly, glancing around. It wasn't really a question, for she was already settling her things on the floor and taking off the strap of knives from her thigh. It sounded heavy against the old wood of the floor.

When she chanced a glance at his direction, Gendry's face was a little red, "You may be surprised, but a friend's taught me to read, and that spells out 'improper' in bold strokes and in several other tongues I've never heard of."

Arya grinned at him, "You forget who you're speaking to."

"No, I really haven't forgotten, princess."

He shared a certain look then, the blue of his eyes clear from underneath his black fringes. It spoke volumes to Arya but for once, she found it unfathomable. It made her angry.

"I'm Arya, if I'm anyone at all!" she snapped, "Arya Stark. Arya. Arya!"

She tossed her pouches and bracers and several of her other things on the floor with a crash and bent down with her hands on her face, trying to will the frustration away. She whispered her name several times on her tongue, trying to rid herself of the stupid accent.

Arya almost didn't notice Gendry moving towards her, but when she did it was too late, he had lain a large, calloused blacksmith hand on the back of her neck. Arya quieted.

"I'm Arya Stark."

"So you are," he said, "But you're also 'Arry. Weasel. Squab. Does it matter? I know you."

She took a breath to still her soul, finding herself unable to speak. Gendry was a strong, hardy man, but uncharacteristically gentle as he brushed her hair away from her face.

Arya stared at him, long after his hands fell away and he turned around. For a long time she just watched as he smoothened the wood chippings and wiped the steel strips from the workbench, set aside the bowls and brought the oils to the side. When she had gathered enough of her courage Arya came up beside him, helping him stow away the tongs, the hammers, the vise, clean out the pans and pile the ores and rods into their labeled barrels. If Gendry noticed her acumen in this sort of work, he did not comment.

Without a word, he set about giving her a washing basin and a clean cloth for her face and hair. She took off her cloaks and cleaned herself in the workshop room with the table. When she turned around Gendry had already stripped off his vest and was washing himself by the anvil. She looked away immediately, but the memory of the lamplight against the mounds of his torso seared her mind even when he had clothed himself with a presentable white shirt. She folded the cloth and took her things with her.

She'd found his cot laid out in the storeroom, and proceeded the standard "room check" she had perfected when she had been growing up. The windows were bolted shut, there were three hiding places (the open chest, the cabinet, behind the door) and two places where she could keep her knives— aside from under the bedding. The ceiling was sealed, so there was no way to get up on the rafters. When she turned around to see if Gendry found her snooping movements suspicious, she found him staring at the floor of the furnace intently.

Arya sighed, "There be only one cot, but this one has two sides."

He glanced at her owlishly as if to say, 'IMPROPER'. She replied with an expressive, 'so what, it's me, remember?'

She didn't say another word. Arya sat to one side of the cot and began braiding her hair, a habit she'd formed when she realized it kept her from being hampered the next morning. As she was tying the last of it Arya felt a heavy weight settle beside her.

She glanced at him. Gendry faced his back to her, as close to his edge of the cot as his bulky frame would allow. He looked awkward.

Arya blew out the candle by her side and laid down. The deadness and silence of the room only heightened Arya's senses. God. He was so wound up she could _smell _his anxiety.

Arya cleared her throat, and said, conversationally, "My sister Sansa used to say that a true knight would lay a sword between 'hisself and his gentle maiden if they ever had 'ta share a mattress."

"Two problems with that," came Gendry's rumbling reply, still facing the other way, "One, we aren't travelling, and two, you're hardly gentle, or a maiden."

"I knows that. _I_ would be the knight."

He laughed, and so did she.

"Go to sleep. Arya."

A few more moments elapsed until a thought came to her, so Arya asked, "Gendry, what _are_ you doing in Winterfell?"

Gendry didn't answer. Maybe he was already asleep. But by his breathing and the tension on his shoulders, Arya knew he wasn't. Not really.


	5. Sansa Silvertongue

**A/N: I'm back. I hope you've all watched the season finale of HBO's Game of Thrones. I have to say I was proud of everyone who made the tv series possible. Of course, I have minor complaints but on the whole the series was enthralling and a cause for inspiration. I hope you enjoyed Sophie Turner's superb acting as Sansa becomes more rounded, human, sympathetic than even what was given in the first book. And also because, this chapter's Sansa's. She became an integral part of this plot, so I have to establish her. Also, minor inaccuracies of past chapter (such as Arya's hair) have been rectified for your pleasure. :)**

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><p>V. Sansa Silvertongue<p>

SANSA

"I trust we can skip the formalities, princess."

The fat lord was young but bald, the top of his head winking at her in the sunlight. His bow (if you could call it that) was only a matter of formality, that much Sansa knew. But she preferred it that way. She found it easier to observe the looks and gestures and mannerisms of men without any of the fawning.

And so Sansa observed. She observed Lord Dickon Tarly twiddling his mustachio, sweating profusely. Observed his kerchief dabbing at the plumpness of his cheek every so often. She couldn't stop looking at what all that tapping was doing to all his... soft stuff.

"I am at your disposal, lord Dickon," she greeted pleasantly, curtseying with her fine muslin dress.

"Damn those dragons, damn them!" he exclaimed, "I thought the Crown contained them back in Duskenvale- but my lands in Maidenpool have been plagued with them, it's a righteous wreck! the two creatures have decided to migrate to greener pastures, greener than that Lord Rykkar could ever attain. And because of that, my sheep flocks, my piggeries, my horses will all be devoured!"

"Calm yourself, mi'lord. I'm sure you've filled out the damages form outside?"

"I don't care about those damn forms! I want those vile monsters out!"

Sansa bit her lip, looking sympathetic. It wasn't such a hard cause to understand. The dragons were a nuisance. Rhaegal and Viserion had grown monstrous and monstrously vicious, with an appetite of a whole new kingdom all on their own. Somehow, Sansa felt it fortunate that the most terrifying of them all, Drogon, had been killed at the siege to reclaim the throne seven years ago.

The dragons had been a wonderful asset for Daenerys reign during the war, but were terrible liabilities during this time of peace. It was almost impossible to control them. They had to hunt, they had to sleep- and almost every land but the north heard their wild, terrible cries when they romped across the grasslands. It was unthinkable to end the lives of such creatures of course, but it was just as unthinkable to have them handled in a distant land or taken overseas. The centuries-old dragon tomes in their libraries had been thoroughly studied. They were of little help to Sansa- in the past, war came about with the dragons' presence, and it suited them just fine. But this time around, the dragons themselves ensured the sliver of peace they were enjoying, even as they were slowly becoming a nuisance for most of the Realm's operations. It was a rightly pure headache.

"I would advise a bit of caution," Sansa said evenly, taking her gaze off Lord Tarly, "Remember, the dragons keep the peace, now."

"Dragons smargons! So many things I've lost! Can you imagine the amount of gold I'm missing in my coffers? it's as if Tywin Lannister had burst the grave only to shit himself to death again! That's how much gold I _don't_ have! And of course the lives of my people-"

Sansa rarely listened to words. She was a woman grown, and knew by experience that a man's words were only as good as their little mustachios. She let him rail on about the lives that were taken, the fear and anger on his vassals, the pain and scorchings, the rampage the dragons exhibited. He wept for his folk, mixing his sweat with his little crocodile tears on the silk kerchief he had dabbing at his face.

The truth of the matter was that Lord Dickon Tarly didn't give a whit for his smallfolk.

His hold was newly acquired - Dickon's father had rebuilt Maidenpool before bestowing it upon him. But unlike his father, plump Dickon was mercantile by nature. If there was anything he was weeping for, it was for all that gold he was losing. Sansa tried her best not to frown. It was a shame that the lush, beautiful lands of Maidenpool had to be given to this greedy little flesh mound. But what a man wants, he would get.

Sansa bowed, "My advice to you, my lord, is to keep the dragons in Maidenpool."

Lord Dickon looked so startled for a second that he'd stopped weeping. Sansa continued, "Don't forget that the Crown pays a fine rent to have both dragons on your land. You also claim the title of Dragon Warden and Keeper of Fire-"

"And what about my livestock? The money? My livelihood? What about my lands- and, of course, my people?"

Dickon was quite transparent. The way he stroked his fine gold rings, the way he clutched on to his fine silk robes. She placed her delicate fingers on the table and leaned in for the kill.

"Do you know how much a dragon scale is worth, Lord Dickon?"

He stilled. Sansa stared deep into his own in a vouch for honesty.

"Each dragon scale costs a hundred of your pigs. Dragons don't shed much, that is true. But Maidenpool was rebuilt only recently, and it sorely needs an industry. If they have fine craftsmen and smiths there that need economy, the dragons may be just a gift from the gods themselves."

"_A hundred _of my pigs? _Each_ scale?"

More like a _million_, but she didn't say it. "Let me make it plain, my dear Lord. How many pigs are there in all of Westeros? In all the land beyond the Narrow Sea? In the far North?"

"How do you expect me to know that?"

"A guess."

Lord Dickon shrugged, "About tens of thousands. No- hundreds of thousands. Five hundred thousands."

"Maybe more," Sansa nodded, "Of course we can never be certain. But we _can_ be certain of some things: how many dragons are there in all the world?"

Sansa always liked it when they got that glimmer in their eyes. It meant that they were hers.

"So you see-" she continued, "This is a golden opportunity up on your lap, so long as you keep the dragons happy. Your capital can start once the Crown pays you the rent so you can train your people. Imagine, the first merchants in over centuries to make dragonscale necklaces, plate, helms- what not. Viserion and Rhaegal are apt fighters, as you know. They go about it almost every other day. I believe they'll be -_showering_ you with more gold than Lord Tywin himself." She smiled.

It was a little later in the Hand's chamber that Lord Dickon Tarly, dazed and speecheless, left her. He had signed the new contract. Of course, Sansa hadn't lied, but she hadn't been completely truthful either. Dragons were not likely to stay put for more than a few months, and having the guts to sweep up some of their scales in their territory bordered on reckless and stupid. Still, if there was active effort on Lord Dickon's part to please both creatures then maybe she had found them a permanent home after all.

"The next one, if you please," Sansa told her maidservant, who bowed and went to fetch the next petitioner, "A bowl of apples and a skinner, too."

She was sitting by her desk skinning her apples when the next lord arrived.

It was lord Rykker, a serious looking stick of a man with curly red hair and orange whiskers around the corner of his mouth. He was old compared to Dickon, but looking far angrier than the former. Sansa sighed.

"My lord Rykker, I had been expecting you. I suspect this is about the dragons?"

"I admit I've been looking forward for their rent- it keeps my hold functioning. But now-! My lands are in no condition to harvest. There is no time for harvest, the season's all wrong! There is nothing I can do but sit and twiddle my thumbs and pray they come back!"

She shrugged amiably, "I am no dragon master."

"But you must understand where I'm coming from as well, princess."

Sansa's mind was whirling. Rykker just wanted a means to survive. He'd started depending on the dragon's rent far too much, now he had no idea what to do to keep his hold functioning. Sansa had a fairly viable solution, she just wasn't sure Lord Rykkar was a man to take it.

Sansa brushed a lock of stray auburn from her face, "You understand the dragons have gone to Maidenpool with the Tarlys, am I correct?-wait, my good ser, allow me to finish. Maidenpool is a relatively new economy. While the dragons have decided to dwell there, the livestock and animals in Maidenpool will be hunted and most likely die out. It is a precarious situation for these people, as you may know. They will be needing new means to sustain themselves."

Lord Rykker was more direct to the point, "What is it you are suggesting?"

"Your fish from the Duskenvale ports will be high in demand soon, if food in Maidenpool is lacking. Duskenvale is not far and you control the merchant roads, am I correct? Furthermore, this vast lands of yours, an abandoned nest of dragons, is now a vast warm pot of mud. What creatures do you know are fond of mud, mi'lord?"

Rykkar gave a blank stare. Sansa knew immediately that she could only pull him so far, so she cleared her throat, "_Pigs._"

"Pigs?"

"Think about it. Maidenpool will lose their means of food- who but a good neighbor can help them? It will keep your economy stable. If that isn't sweet enough for you, my lord," Sansa could already see it would need a little bit more persuading, "The dragons themselves will be needing food. If you produce enough livestock, The Crown will pay you for years unending. It is still a steady stream of income. Granted, it isn't as much as the dragon's rent, but I'm sure it can keep things running...?"

"And where am I to find my first investment of pigs, princess?"

"It's not official, but I believe that Lord Tarly will be more than happy to cut a deal with you regarding that. He is, after all, at a disadvantage. "

In the end, the Lord Rykkar was not too pleased, but he signed the documents with his name and seal anyways. When he left, Sansa experienced a few precious moments of undisturbed silence in the chamber. Managing the kingdom was an awful job, what was worse was that she wouldn't get any credit of it. She wasn't The Hand, that would always be a man's job, and that man was "managing" the Eyrie with his presence. She kept her back straight against the chair and began peeling her last apple.

The knock on the door was sudden, harsh and abrupt. Men were yelling just beyond the door, short of a commotion. When the door opened, Sansa saw three castle guards trudging into the chamber with the captain dragging another guard by the hair. His armor screeched against the floor as he was dumped in front of her.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sansa asked cooly. She gazed at the guard on the floor, his helm confiscated, long black hair tangled around his face. Though she was deeply rattled, her composure was both cold steel and soft as a Lady's courtesies.

"We found this 'un" said the captain who'd dragged the other man in, "He has a position in the castle guard."

"I think I could see that quite plainly from here."

"He's a spymaster of the house Westerling."

Sansa's blood ran cold. Westerling was more than a bannerhouse of Lannister to her. That name had a special place in Sansa's heart, and her heart was black with scorn. She remembered Robb for a moment in her mind, the brother she most loved and respected. She thought of Jeyne Westerling, the Freys, the plots, the oaths, and all that could not be undone. She thought of Robb's blood staining the white wedding linens on the dinner table.

She reigned her fury in though, and kept her face gentle as she regarded the captive, "Is this true, ser?"

The man seemed cowed to silence and refused to answer. Another guard to the back spoke up, "We searched his room, princess, "Nothin' outta the ordinary till we found a whole box full of scorpion poisons and corrosives under his bed."

At the last word the man burst out in tears and began crawling towards the desk, reaching for her feet. Sansa did not cringe away. She stood, but only to walk around and look at him for a very long time. Then she turned and took an apple from her bowl, and began to bite delicately into its flesh.

The rear guard stirred, "What will we do with him, princess?"

"Only take his poisons from his bedroom," she answered.

There was a glimmer of hope on the wretched man's face, but Sansa was waiting for it. She smiled at him gently, "Have them pour all the vials into one goblet, and have him drink it to the last drop. If he doesn't wish to, cut out his toes and fingers until he does. If you've run out of them, put his head on a spike."

There was a stunned look on the man's face, to which Sansa added, "Don't worry. You can have one of my apples before that."

He was a broken man already. The spy howled in pleading gesticulations he was dragged back out. Sansa stared at his face, forced herself to memorize that moment, the look of his haggard flesh, damp with tears, sagging against his open gaping mouth. The captain of the castle guard stopped for a moment by the door.

"Is that all, princess?"

"No. Bring me the man who saw this wretched fool for who he truly was."

"I am that man, your highness." He turned back to her and knelt low, took off his helm, incredibly pleased to be praised by the beautiful Stark princess. He was a blond man, young, with a hooked nose and deep sea-green eyes. Sansa gave a pleasant smile.

"Arrest him, please."

Her household guards wasted no time. The man was stunned into silence, and received the chains without restraint.

With one hand, Sansa opened one of the drawers from the Hand's desk and slowly went through the parchment.

"Sir Walter Cux from Ashford?" She asked calmly.

He did not say anything.

She kept the papers in their place and glanced out the window, her other hand still holding the apple she was enjoying, "Sir Walter Cux. Hmm. My little birds told me a different name. They called you... Horton Lydden of the Deep Dens. Of all people, a Lannister Bannersman, really?"

Horton Lydden remained silent.

"I've known for some time now," Sansa measured, turning to glance at him, "What I didn't understand was_ why_. Why are you here? Why send a false name?"

"But-"

"-It was not until I saw you dragging the poor fool into this room that I figured it out. You turned in the poor Westerling man because you felt threatened having another in the castle."

"I don't understand-"

She was suddenly all sharp and business-toned, "Then consider this, Lydden. How can a guard of upstanding value such as yourself recognize a very careful, well-concealed spymaster unless you're in the network as well?"

Horton blanched.

"It's alright," she continued, "You have your webs, I have mine. It just seems as if my little birds are better than yours."

Done with her apple, Sansa threw the core back into the bowl and walked back to her seat by the desk.

"Now," she whispered, "To better matters, spy. How much do you value information on Cersei Lannister? Does it cost more than your life?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: sorry for the double AN. I just felt like I have to explain myself. I'm afraid my readers really aren't as welcoming of Sansa as I am. I just wanted this chapter for all to see how much of the mess the Realm is at this point, to give a brief glimpse of how Sansa has grown, and what characteristics she will be defined as as she comes to meet her family again. Not much happened, it's more of the implications of everything, including what's happening to Dany, but more of that later. Haha. Lastly I had to cut an important scene from here and give it up for the next few chapters- so I'm sorry for the slower development. I guess it's my fault for trying to tackle everything Martin left hanging. Oh god. The fifth is coming out soon. Please keep reviewing! Arya is up next again! She will be featured in every other chapter starting now!**


	6. A Brush With Wildfire

**A/N: Hi guys. Today I've decided to address that hunger for Arya. This is more like a SET of Arya chapters and though they could have looked good on their own, I bunched them together as I had to rush the story a bit. Though you won't learn much about the bigger things this chapter I'm afraid (I'm terrible at making things move!) But I just wanted to lay the grounds for how Arya's faring in Winterfell, even if it's only for about a few weeks (I personally find it a little boring /coughflailcough/) Oh, a few more characters will be popping up soon, but I'll try to run the story alongside them. And I've upped the rating. I'm warning you.**

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><p>VI. A Brush With Wildfire<p>

ARYA

The elk's snout was fresh with melted ice as he scrounged along the underside of a log, licking at places he felt should have been more generous with moss. He turned to check the bark then grew still, rearing up to stare into the distance as if he had heard some slight shift.

An arrow buried itself neatly into his eye not a second later.

Blinded, the elk reared back, making a short keening sound before careening into the dead log, his crown of horns knocking against the wood. He shook for a moment, bucking, and then lay still above a pool of dark red.

The scent of blood was strong. Arya made her way down the large tree, her bow slung across her shoulder and the quiver of arrows rattling against her back. She would have to hurry in order to avoid the other predators lurking nearby. Though it was true that Arya was not too far off from Winterfell, she had journeyed alone and was decidedly vulnerable if, for instance, she ran into a bear or a pack of wolves.

She preferred to hunt alone even if Jojen and Meera had advised her otherwise. They couldn't seem to understand her. Arya had lived tough ever since she left King's Landing on that fateful journey, depending on no one entirely, so it was too unlike her to seek protection and dependency now. Although she enjoyed the occasionally hunt with Meera, the girl was too preoccupied with befriending her. Arya disliked idle chat, especially if it was about her frigid brother or Winterfell or even if it was about the Reeds themselves.

Arya sighed, looking at her prey. The elk was fine venison indeed, young and healthy despite the harsh cold surroundings. Arya didn't have the luxury to bring the elk back whole, so cutting it in large pieces and placing them in burlap sacks was her only option. She retrieved the curved knife from her array and swiftly began slitting the elk's stomach, giving the quickest field dressing she could manage. In all her mismatched skills, she was at her best in hunting. It made sense since her truest profession was not too different from it, anyway.

She took out a longer serrated knife and began sawing off parts of bone.

Even in the wildest conditions, Arya was an excellent hunter and a gifted forager as well. The people at Winterfell didn't say much to her, but they saw her value immediately after her first hunt. They had never had such an abundance of meats and fish, especially since the permanent cold had long settled in the area.

After washing herself with some snow, Arya began to backtrack into the woods with the game on her back. She was on foot this time and had treaded not too far from the northern gate, so she made her way easily. At around dusk, the path she was walking on became familiar, human made although centuries old. Then she found herself in her father's godswoods. She had already visited the godswoods the morning before her hunt, but Arya decided it was only right to pay her respects as dusk as well. She let down her burlap sacks at the foot of an old pine and strode towards the large black and white tree, its bark mottled with scars and burns all over. Only a small sprout of red leaves at the top of the highest branch indicated the tree was still alive, if only faintly.

She lowered her head and prayed to the old gods and the new, and even to the God of death, that she might be granted a way to avenge those damnable northmen who'd thought to desecrate her father's gods. She thought to pray for a way to avenge her whole family as well when a faint rustle stirred in the woods.

Arya opened her eyes and whipped around, her blade already whirring in her hand.

"Who goes there?" came a boy's call from an indeterminable source. Arya couldn't see him and though she could have immediately tracked him down, she didn't. It was a young boy's voice, one that had yet to break in adolescence. She eased her stance.

"Not a foe, lad," she said simply.

"So you'd put down that knife, ya?"

Arya saw his point. She sheathed her blade back and opened her palms out into the the woods to show that she was unarmed. From behind the shadows, she saw a young lanky shape step out to the clearing. The boy had rough, wild hair, thick eyebrows and a furious set of blue eyes. He also had a crossbow quarrel aimed straight at Arya's heart.

"Well that certainly isn't fair," Arya deadpanned.

The boy smirked, cocking his head, "Who'ryou supposed to be? Don't recognize ya."

His vulgar way of talk made her remember some of the rat boys at Harrenhal whom she'd seen during her stint as Nan. Arya bit back a flurry of expletives and insults and decided on a flat, "A new addition to Winterfell."

The boy began to stalk towards her, looking her up and down with curiosity and a bit of disdain. Arya got further annoyed when she realized how young the boy really was, no more than ten and two maybe, and still a runt that his height didn't even go past her shoulders. She could easily overpower him, except there was that trigger he was holding.

"So you're a servant, eh? Cook's errand girl?" he asked nastily as he swept his eyes onto her exotic leather armor. Then he smirked, "Or whore. Look more like a whore. Din't know the Cripple King fucked whores now. Didn't even know that he could, haha."

He'd stepped close enough for Arya and in one second she had caught him at unawares by diving for his legs. The quarrel zipped safely past her hair as she tackled him to the floor, sending the crossbow cluttering away and forcing his back onto the snow. She sent a quick jab to his jaw.

"Don't you know it's a stupid idea to get close to someone you're aiming at? Gives them a chance to disarm you."

Arya punched him again, intending to bruise.

"So do I still look like a whore, boy?" she snarled, watching the blood gush at his split lip. She was straddling him, pinning him down even as he sneered and forced himself against her, trying to break free.

"Now tell me who the hell you are, runt," hissed Arya, "and I'll teach you some respect."

The boy tried to fly a punch at her nose which she easily evaded. She trapped his arms against him and he bucked up, snarling, "You see what you did to me? Bet you are a whore. Or a servant slut. A weepy little cunt."

For a second Arya didn't understand what he meant, and then realization dawned on her when she could make out his erection planted firmly against her inner thigh. At close quarters, she could also note the dilated pupils and his panting, but she didn't let up.

"I'm not a whore. Give me your name and I'll be off you,"

She said this with gritted teeth, trying to keep herself from smashing the boy's skull in.

But the boy was laughing, "You'll pay for this, slut," and that's when she heard it.

A loud growling sound. Something large came dashing from behind her, and Arya leapt aside just in time to see a black direwolf dart from the bushes, putting himself between her and the boy. He bared his white fangs at her, his head lowered menacingly.

Arya was too shocked at the realization that she didn't have time to think. She fell back to the snow, exclaiming, "Rickon?"

The boy's face flashed in surprise, but the direwolf had already leapt towards her.

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><p>It was not surprising to note that dinner was an awkward event.<p>

After being cured, Arya's elk was broiled and served as gallantly as a welcoming feast, but Rickon's split lip and black eye, and the long ghastly lacerations on Arya's face and shoulders left little to the imagination.

Despite coming home together, Arya claimed she had gotten her wounds from a bear, and Rickon had equally divulged a lie involving a scruff with a carpenter's son. But Arya could tell that nobody believed it, especially with how she kept shooting Rickon angry glances. But for their part, the Winterfell folk kept mum, as if this was a normal occurrence. For that, she was grateful.

She was trying to chew her bread slowly and painlessly when she felt Bran leaning in and taking the bowl of olives from her side. He was sitting beside her tonight, which was unusual, and as she glanced at him she noticed his blue-green eyes seemed more alert. He was tracing her wounds with his eyes.

"Have Meera attend to that again tonight," he said to her simply, before looking back at his food. And then he redoubled, adding, "Oh, and find something useful to do inside the castle. I forbid you to walk even outside the bailey until you've closed up." And then he ignored her.

Bran had been waiting for a chance to ground her in the castle since she'd first left, and this was the perfect reason to employ it. She cursed under her breath.

The lacerations weren't life threatening, but they were deep and they hurt, and her whole body was banged up from having the wolf's weight pound on her. She put up a fight; she even had a nasty bite on her right shoulder to prove it. But while she hated getting wounded, she hated it even more when others saw her as weak and incompetent. So she refused to stay in bed and made a great show of limping along the stone walls, concentrating on keeping the pain out of her face. Her mood had plummeted because of this excursion though, and the whole castle felt her wrath so keenly that even the friendlier servants avoided her. And although she owed Rickon her life for literally kicking Shaggydog away, his own dark amusement at her predicament angered her. He had been let off really easy, and smirked at her like a little kid who was given the better toy.

Arya was not a stranger to pain. She'd had wounds like this before, but she was almost always alone when she had to recover. Now she doubly hated herself for letting the pain cut through her temper and make her even more hostile. She practically bristled with antagonism at everyone and at everything. And because the great hall presented itself as the town hall and tavern, she was indubitably observed in her foulest by most of the townspeople as well.

_Yes, this is your princess, _she snarled inwardly, _gruesome and deadly and mean. _

After making a quick decision, Arya abandoned her food and carefully made her across the hall towards Meera's room upstairs. At a glance, she found Gendry watching her intently.

She and Gendry had barely talked in the past week she'd been in Winterfell. She was a late sleeper and he an early riser, so she would creep into his room in the darkest hours of night when he was already slumbering and wake up with nobody next to her. Castle duties kept them separated most of the day, and he avoided the household area during most mealtimes, but Arya didn't truly mind. She liked the fact that he was a constant, stable anchor on her side without having to keep her in conversation.

"Princess," said Meera gently at her side, trying to help her up the stairs. Arya pulled her arm away from her and then winced as a jab of pain hit her unbidden, "Meera. I was on my way to your room. You don't have to help me."

Meera shrugged, not in the least bit put off, and began talking all the way to her quarters.

Arya frowned. She liked Meera well enough on most days, she was a good sort, but entirely too noisy. When they arrived Arya was made to sit by the fireplace and Meera began brushing back Arya's tangled mass of hair. The slight girl was still discussing the day's events and with one particular pull of the brush, Arya flinched and blurted, "Could you shut up?"

Meera paused, and Arya couldn't help but feel cross with herself.

"Sorry," she muttered, "Everything just hurts."

Meera shrugged again and quite light-heartedly asked, "Would you mind undressing?" and Arya nodded, doing so without another word.

After braiding, Meera brought her lithe fingers around Arya's face and her torso and arms, reviewing the bite, the stitching on her chin, the wounds of her face, the bruising, the long stretch of gashes on her shoulders, the smaller, scattered punctures on her torso and hips. Arya closed her eyes as she felt a dampened wool cloth running down her wounds. The pain on her shoulder was too painful though so she had to force herself to keep still. Meera didn't notice. She continued cleaning the wounds before applying a moistened a pasty mix of dried tansy, lavander, goose grass and wine on her. Feeling the sting, Arya grit her teeth.

"You've got to be careful of Rickon," said Meera softly, and suddenly, "And for his direwolf as well."

Arya couldn't help it. She opened her eyes and muttered, "'His name's Shaggydog."

"Maybe once," was Meera's reply, "but not anymore. Rickon never really addresses his wolf or commands him. He's more likely to throw things or kick him if he wanted something done. But mostly he lets the direwolf do whatever he wants. You aren't the first to be attacked."

Disgusted by the revelation, Arya closed her eyes again. Rickon and his small retinue had only arrived tonight and the young boy was a quiet addition to the household dinner seats, resigning himself with nasty looks and the occasional smirk. She realized Shaggydog had not been at his side. Arya felt so suddenly appalled and, strangely enough, hurt.

_The direwolf is the sigil of our house,_ she could remember her father saying proudly.

"Why is he like that?"

Meera shrugged, "He grew up with the wrong sort of felons in a small pirate isle near the coast of Skagos. They hated him, and he hated them back. And then he hated Winterfell for bringing him there, and began hating the world for giving birth to him."

"But Bran sent him there for his own safety," Arya didn't feel much for Bran, but defending him felt like the right thing. Meera nodded in assent.

"Yes, And Bran tracked him down and brought him back, almost in chains if I remember correctly. It couldn't be helped. After Winterfell burned, Bran meant to travel north, and Maester Luwin had told the rest of us to separate the princes. Rickon's protector Osha died a grisly death soon after, leaving Rickon alone. I don't know the rest of the story afterwards. I just know that Rickon's a dangerous sort, unruly, angry and morose. And his direwolf-"

"-takes on after him, I know." And she felt a pang of longing for Nymeria, wishing there was at least one more night where she could snuggle with her pup in the fireplace. Arya suddenly recalled that day she shouted at her, hitting her with the stones, tears blurring her vision as her beautiful lithe wolf disappeared into the forest.

Meera touched her face lightly, bringing her back to the present, "Princess, Don't stay alone with him again."

Arya didn't like the grave look on her face, "Is he like that with everyone?"

"No. He usually keeps to himself, wandering around the castle, doing as he likes. But I think he's taken quite an... interest in you."

Arya remembered the look he gave her body in the woods, the warm bulge of his manhood pressed firmly against her thigh. She resisted the urge to shiver, feeling like there were mites crawling under her skin. Her features must have shown some of the alarm, for Meera paused, her green eyes looking deep into grey.

"He's a broken person, Arya."

It seemed strange for Meera to say that after treating her wounds. Meera seemed to realize it so she added, "You're a broken person too. So is Bran. Maybe Jon and your sister as well. Your whole family is broken."

She said this gently, without malice, but it stung like a fiery brand. Arya wished she would stop speaking, but Meera continued, "And for a time the world thought house Stark was as good as dead. But you all survived. Broken, you lot are, but all survivors. And you all have another beginning. That's what's important."

For the first time in maybe eight or nine years, Arya felt warm, soothing arms around her in a very careful, very gentle embrace. Her life spun in her mind in hot flashes like lightning. _She was broken. They were all broken remnants of a family. _An image of her father's sword, Ice, came to mind, dripping with his blood.

For a moment Arya couldn't understand why she'd hitched her breath, and why her eyes were so heavy with tears.

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><p>It took only a few days for Arya to start moving without wincing or accidentally breaking a stitch. Keenly avoiding Rickon or his direwolf, Arya tried to content herself with doing odd jobs in the castle with the chamber maids. At first they were simple chores like getting the cloth bolts to the weavers and the earthenpots to the kitchen, building fires, shepherding the children and hauling the raw materials to the workers. But soon she was scaling walls and climbing the rafters to nail down the wood with the other carpenters. But the men had issues working with her and often dropped tools and items in their skittishness. They were straining themselves over being polite to the princess of the castle. It annoyed her to no end. Soon she'd regressed back to the menial tasks just so that she didn't have to deal with them again.<p>

That was why Arya sat fuming and sulking to herself early one Monday another week later, trying to knot a tassel on one of the tapestries the girls were making. She couldn't help remembering a young Sansa glowing next to her with her smooth delicate needlework. Arya pulled at her tassel angrily and held it up against the light, scrutinizing the misshapen knot of yarn that aggressively demonized the work.

"Not exactly an artist, are you?" Bran asked from behind. Arya turned to him and glared.

He was sitting next to a table, setting the quill aside to observe her.

"Your fault for grounding me," groused Arya, "Now your castle will be cursed with awful tapestries wherever you look."

She could almost imagine a small smile forming on Bran's face, but it could easily have been her imagination. Bran beckoned her closer with his deceptively cool, blank gaze so she cautiously made her way towards the table. She knew how much of a temperament Bran actually had, and also knew how, at times, he could be as cold and stoic as stone.

There was a falcon on Bran's shoulder today, and on his table sat what looked like a short letter hurriedly scribbled. Bran put it away before she could glean anything off it. Arya couldn't have cared less. She'd long forgotten how to read the Westeros tongue.

"I've better use for you," he said quietly. She frowned, feeling a little miffed at the indication but watching as he gracefully began writing scribbles down a piece of dark parchment.

"Take this to the smith- it's an emergency order of things I'll need from him. I'll retrieve it by tomorrow at sundown."

Arya wondered if Bran had noticed the icy detachment that had developed between Gendry and herself, but Bran didn't waste time to say anything about it. She took the parchment and began to walk away, but turned when Bran started clearing his throat.

"And be careful," he said, "blacksmithing is terribly physical work."

At his meaningful look, Arya suddenly smiled. And she didn't imagine it this time. Bran was smiling back.

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><p>When the door opened, Gendry took one long look at her.<p>

"So what happened to your face?"

"Something decidedly bad."

It figures that it would be the first thing he'd ask her when she showed up in his workshop. She had been forced to rest in the castle and had no way to see him before then, so this was the first time they'd met properly since Shaggydog's assault. Her face wasn't completely brutalized, but some of the scars were going to stay visible for quite a while. The bite mark on her shoulder looked to be permanent, as the stitch on her chin. Arya had a penchant for healing quickly and smoothly since she'd become an assassin, but to have them still red and raw must make her look like quite the wildling.

Gendry's eyes were bright and piercing as they scrutinized her. She took a step towards the furnace, towards the light. It must have shown a more glaring view of her wounds because Gendry's lips grew taut into a straight line. For a moment they stood stock still. Then, as if mesmerized, he traced some of the closed wounds on her face gently before dropping his hand and turning away.

Annoyed at the odd touch, Arya said, "Don't worry. I didn't come here for bragging rights."

He looked back at her as she handed him the parchment.

"He needs this by the morrow, at dusk." Of course she meant Bran, but she could see Gendry come to the conclusion immediately as his eyes ran down the list she couldn't read.

"This is crazy," he said after a moment, "It's impossible to make four entire helms and a set of bracers by tomorrow. It would take every living breath from here to then, and that's if I had an apprentice."

Arya nodded, reiterating, "And that's if you had an apprentice."

He glared at her in silence, and she glared back for a very, very long moment.

"No." Gendry said.

"Yes."

"Oh no you're not."

Arya fired up, "And why ever not?"

"Look at you!" cried Gendry, "You're hurt all over. A few days ago you couldn't even walk straight. And I'm begging your pardon, but this really isn't in your place, your highness."

Arya decidedly did not like what that he meant by that, especially how he said 'your highness' like it was an obstacle or a curse. She strode up to him, so suddenly hot with fury she seemed to crackle like a flame, "Have I really, _ever _given you reason to think I give a rat's shit about _stations_, Gendry?"

He was so much taller but she was tough and brazen, standing as close as she could so that they were staring face-to-face. Her fists were on either side of her and she could feel his breath fanning over her forehead. Arya had never been so direct nor so close to him like that, but she felt she needed to make her stance known. She watched him carefully as he startled, blue eyes flickering and his ears suddenly bright red.

"What," she asked silkily, "am I scaring you?"

Gendry didn't comment, but he backed down, looking away and folding his arms in front of him. He was weighing his options, she knew. But there was only one choice to be made. Gendry had only two days to make all of Bran's requests, which would be impossible to finish if Arya kept picking a fight (which she was likely to do if he didn't accept her). Getting a fresh apprentice was double the trouble, what with having to instruct them as well work. But Arya was slightly seasoned in the craft and if he had her as an apprentice... Gendry sighed.

"Fine. Get the furnace ready and the coal stocked. And three pails of snow, please."

Arya grinned, stepping back to give a flourished bow, "As you wish, my good Ser Waters."

"Stop that."

"As it please you, ser."

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><p>Soon, the furnace billowed black smoke out into the vents of the bailey, and the rhythmic pounding of iron on metal sang. It was long, exhausting work, even for Arya. She was made to fetch and warm and pound the easier strips of metal for Gendry, who then worked at it on the rounded metal former he retrieved from the shelf. The coal ran out quickly, which meant Arya had to run around to the back to pour more into the slates. The buckets of ice also had to be replaced several times. The ores were heavy, but she carried them to Gendry when he needed to patch an extra area of his plate. There were moments when all she did was wait, sweating like a pig beside the furnace as Gendry pounded and hammered upon one particular piece, and she would notice that keen blank look he had when he was totally absorbed in his work. When she was younger, she already thought him strong- now that he was a man grown, he was even stronger, even to a deadly potency.<p>

Arya's lunch consisted of an apple and some bread, and though she tried to coax him out of his work, Gendry did not eat at all. By night some of the helms began to take shape: simple and barbute styled, unadorned but sturdy and welded to fit comfortably over the head. The bracer- which Arya had first thought to mean arm bracer- was actually special equipment for Bran who needed to clip his knees in a riding position using leather thongs and small strips of metal. He'd long since made the measurements, and Gendry told her the device was designed for long riding.

Even long past midnight Gendry was still hammering away, molding one particular head piece to the right cylindrical shape for the back of the head. Arya was beginning to waver from her vigil of waiting on him, and when Gendry had caught her battling against heavy eyelids, he'd ordered her to go to bed.

"How am I supposed to fall asleep with the racket your making?" She asked testily.

"I don't know," he replied, just as irritated, "you were doing a fine job just a moment ago."

Arya rolled her eyes but prepared for bed anyway. She knew her body couldn't take any more of the strain, even if she'd long ignored the pangs from her injuries. For his part, Gendry seemed to try and quiet down his work, concentrating on the wielding and twisting instead of the pounding. The moment Arya put her head on the cot she realized she was truly exhausted. She turned to the doorway where she could still make out the furnace room.

She noticed that Gendry's blue eyes seemed to glimmer in the heating fire, and that his sweat made his arms look even bulkier than before. She'd long since been accustomed to the bit of grime that stuck to his face when he worked, but his expression was a new kind of solemn as he picked up a small sheet of metal and began moulding it with special care. Arya wanted to go and look at what exactly was keeping those eyebrows locked together in concentration, thinking, _he couldn't be redoing the bracer, could he?_ but before she could move, she was already fast asleep, forgetting the incident entirely.

And a little before dusk the next day they were done, the last two helms cooling in buckets of snow. Gendry was hunched over, sitting on the workshop table, too focused to sleep but too exhausted to talk. Arya sat across from him, whetting idly and keeping him company in silence.

When there was a knock on the door it was Arya who opened it, finding a tiny, smiling Meera, white coat over her shoulders and Bran's brown falcon watching her closely. Meera was carrying a large pot of herbed potatoes in her hands. Arya made room for the small woman to pass.

She set the potatoes down by the workshop table in front of Gendry and spotted the helms in the buckets.

"Famed work as always, Gendry, and quick," she said, leaning down to inspect them.

Gendry stirred as he retrieved the bracers, "I'm hoping this is a good fit for him."

"Oh. It's perfect."

He nodded quietly and went back to the furnace room to retrieve the other helms. Arya, who'd sat back in her original chair, cocked an eyebrow, "I would think Bran would have checked up on his things himself."

The falcon by Meera's side twitched, but Meera merely smiled, "Don't worry about it, princess. And do you want me to wrap that for you?"

Arya glanced down at her hands which were swollen with welts from all that long hauling. She closed them into fists.

"I'm fine. Thanks."

Gendry came back out with two burlap sacks and the metalwork clanging against each other.

"This is all of it, m'lady," he said as he gave it to her.

"Good," Meera said amiably, and then tapped the pot on the table, "Here's supper for Arya and yourself. Finish it and get a good night's rest, Waters. You're needed at dawn."

Arya opened her mouth to protest that Gendry had been working full all these two days, but then Meera had turned to her and added, "So are you, Arya. Sleep in the castle tonight after your meal. Bran has your things ready."

Arya blinked, taken aback, "What things? What is this about?"

Meera gave her a puzzled glance, turning to leave, "Didn't he tell you? We're riding southwest tomorrow. To retrieve Jon Snow."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm reduced to groveling, but I have no shame. Please tell me what you think. Please oh please? **


	7. The Other Shadows

**VII. The Other Shadows**

**A/N: Surprise guys! Please don't kill me. I've actually had this chapter at 90% for the past five months except for the last few bits, which I couldn't seem to fit in properly. Nasty case of writer's block, or in other words, "life is too demanding that I'm not able to sit down and think" case. I love you guys and I'm glad I'm still able to affect people with my writing, which I sorely miss. I'm rusty, and my plot is still a jumble in my head, but I'm still trying. Don't get me wrong, I HAVE a plot, just a lot of loose ends and unknown motivations... I'll whack it down somehow.. just hope it's good enough. Please review and let me know what you think. Next chapter is Arya's.**

JON

Jon awoke to the flickering of a candle. For a brief second the shadows on the wall reminded him of heavy sharp teeth, blood and screaming - but there was nothing in the room but silence.

He pulled himself upright, wincing at the pain that pierced his chest. He couldn't recall where he was and why he felt so badly hurt. All he knew was that the thick hemp bandages were wound too tightly over his naked torso, and that the candlelight was so dim it strained his eyes. All around him a wall of stone rose, with no door or window in sight. As if by instinct he searched for Longclaw or even his satchel, gloves or boots in the semi-darkness, but he found nothing.

Jon put his hands to his face. Despite the cold his breath was feverishly warm. He could even feel sweat on his brow. The bandages smelled like tansy and yellow dock herb- indicative of an infection. Someone had been treating him, and if that were the case they should be somewhere nearby.

"Wa-terrr," he croaked, as loud as he could bear, which was not too loud at all. He called out for it again, several times, licking his cracked lips with his dry tongue.

Something shifted above him as the wooden ceiling slid open, revealing a small boy's dark eyes peering into the room. Then the lid slid close and Jon was alone again.

Now that he was regaining his wakefulness, Jon thought back to his memories. He had been with his men, riding against the cold northern winds. The Others had driven them down south from Greybark, chasing them with their dead steeds of horses and bulls and bears. The snow had been cold and sharp and winded his men, but fear was sharper still, so they had ridden on. Jon remembered the tautness of his leather reins, the wind whipping and sniping and Ghost's heavy paws on the snow. His voice breaking as he shouted for his men to keep together.

The horses' terror were a means to their survival. Jon's own mount had begun frothing at the mouth, unruly as it cantered, swift and skittish as a deer. Jon guiltily remembered the timbre and pitch of each horse that screamed and stumbled and fell. He had looked back too, resigning himself to the sight of dead men flocking around his comrades.

Human screams were the loudest in his head, as fresh and lifelike as ever.

Jon closed his eyes. He must have lost a third of his men riding across the Wolfswood and out into what he assumed to be the Barrowlands. It meant that they were leagues from Greybark, yet the dark horde had continued on.

The wooden ceiling slid open again, and Jon was pulled from his reverie. He watched in silence as a ladder was brought down and soon, two men in brown robes descended. The first man was tall and built like a warrior, and because his skin was dark as teak it made the whites of his eyes stand out harshly in the shadows. The other man looked Westeros-born, with fair skin, and though slightly smaller than the first man, he was also brawny. Jon could only see his bare arms and feet, for the second man was hooded and masked.

"Feeling better, son?" said the dark man, holding out a cup to Jon's lips.

Jon drank eagerly as the two stood watching him, silent as stone sentinels. Once he was done the dark man handed the cup to his hooded brother and began inspecting Jon's dressings and skin.

"Your fever is breaking," he said approvingly.

"What have you done with my sword?" said Jon, "My men? Where is my wolf?"

"At ease, brother. Men and wolves are not easily comforted in a room under the earth."

Jon's eyes adjusted to the darkness rather poorly, but he did his best to examine the man speaking before him. The man was a giant, almost seven feet tall and four heads wide in the shoulder; each hand could easily wrap around the whole of Jon's throat. Jon wondered if he was from the Lands of the Summer Sea, or maybe from other continents south of Essos, for his lush dark skin was unusual.

Jon frowned, "I have no recollection of you at all... yet I _know_ you."

The man shrugged, "Your mind was addled. Fever from the infection on your wound. The Others walked among you."

"Behind us. I distinctly remember they were behind us."

Jon could remember a little more now. He and his men continued past the hills, crying for help and searching for any kind of refuge. But the small hamlets they crossed were abandoned or dead. The Others had grown bold and had kept on the chase, sweeping up the cold and the mist around them like a giant, vengeful storm.

Close to despair and hounded, Jon nearly wept at the sight of a broken-down monastery in the distance, sitting atop a small plateau in serene repose. A small stream snaked around it and the surroundings were clumped with giant iron trees leaning heavily on the building. As they approached they saw massive roots and vines rotting the towers away and choking at the walls. It was a ruined, shambled estate, but it was easier to secure.

Jon remembered the night they crossed the river, the shadows and the mist just behind them. Jon had steeled himself right before the water, screaming "They're gaining! Cross it! Get to the other side and defend the walls!" but when he had seen Kormick and his horse being dragged down by the mist he acted without thinking. Vaguely he realized he was forcing his horse to gallop the wrong way, but by then it was too late- there was a freezing coldness in the air and everything in Jon's vision grew hazy as he approached his fallen comrade.

But what he saw froze his heart.

During the chase, Jon often glanced behind him, peering into the heady mist. He had always seen the misshapen figures of the Others following close. But the creature before him now was not like them. In fact, some of the wights within range had shirked back from these new, strange, silent creatures. The stink of cold and death hovered, but the beasts on top of Kormick was unlike anything he had ever seen. They seemed to have been human once, but now they were hunched over on all fours like a beast, with webbed feet and jowls twice as large as their heads. It didn't seem to have skin; instead it stood jet-black and bony against the white snow, like a solid shadow. Only its wet teeth and its large, round, gleaming white eyes gave it that wicked expression.

It had shred Kormick's innards with its mouth, spraying the snow with red rain. As Jon approached one the creatures turned, crouched almost like a human boy, and then jumped high and straight towards him with a swiftness unlike any of the Others.

Then there was a sharp pain on Jon's chest as the teeth bore into him, and he fell back, winded against the smack of solid ice. So many things were happening at once that it all became a blur. A heavy weight was on him; he thought he could feel ice cold hands digging into his heart could hear the shrill whine-turn-garble of his horse as it gurgled on its own blood, and Ghost's howl in the distance. Then knew only ice and darkness.

"I-I can't remember past being dragged down by that... that thing." Jon whispered.

"That's almost exactly what you said the last time we spoke," said the dark man quietly as he sat by the bed. He looked at Jon with an apologetic expression and continued.

"You probably do not remember me, Jon Snow, but I am Septon Quay. The last two times I've introduced myself I had told you my long winding life story, but I tire of such repetition and today I will only say that I have been nursing you back to health for almost a week now. Your direwolf Ghost is out at the moment, but he returns nightly to stand vigil at the entrance of this room. You had questions last time so I will answer them again: you have ten men still able to fight, the rest have fled or died. Some were in a state of fever such as you, but died and returned to us in that manner."

At Jon's stricken look, Septon Quay added, "We killed them again and burned their bodies above ground. The danger has passed."

So many deaths for those who trusted him. Jon grit his teeth, feeling stupid, weak and powerless. "Which ones? What were their names? "

"The Stranger took their names along with their souls. Four wore the black, fifteen were free men."

Jon tried to stand. He reached out for the post of the bed and forced his legs down the edge, but the Septon held him down, "Don't move too quickly or the stitches will come undone. "

"I have to speak with my men. I have to send a letter-"

"You did that yesterday. To the king at Winterfell, you said. We couldn't find you a horse healthy enough to carry riders back, but you recognized a falcon that lingered by the camp, and it came to your beck and call."

Bran's skin, thought Jon. Bran must have heard of his predicament by now, but he could hardly remember what he had written to him and what they were to do. Jon felt so helpless and lost that he was suddenly angry, "I thought this monastery had been abandoned. How long have you been camped here? Where were you when the Others descended on us?"

Septon Quay was patient, but the hooded Westeros man behind him was wrought with irritation. When the Septon saw his brother's closed fists he stood, "Brother Feral, please do help the Lord Commander up. We will dress him and give him something to eat." When Jon looked like he was about to demand the answers outright, the Septon added, "We will answer your questions as you are eating. It is good that you are well enough to stand. You need to get out and move about-but slowly. I promise you, all will be answered in time."

* * *

><p>Jon Snow ate in the middle of a small hall, as bleak and empty as any of the corridors that surrounded it. The roof overhead had weathered, casting warm sunlight from its many holes and cracks. Mildew, mushroom and weeds clung to the walls and floors. A few tree roots hung down from the walls and the ceiling.<p>

Jon ate his gruel heartily, dressed in the simple brown cloak all the other monks were wearing. He had spotted two or three of his own men on his way to the eating quarter, hauling buckets of water and clearing rubble from the more dilapidated areas. It irked Jon to see the men he had trained for battle in the faith's clothes, but he supposed he should be glad they were still alive.

Septon Quay continued their ongoing conversation, "Yes, most of us are Begging Brothers and Poor Fellows, a few are even Warrior's Sons and Silent Sisters, and some orphans, widows, destitute men and women of the seven kingdoms, wildlings. Anyone that had been swept up by the war with no place to go. Once rested and fed most of the brothers move on to other villages and others stay or go as they please."

"And you stay here? In the middle of nowhere?" Jon said, incredulous.

"We have survived."

Jon stared at him. Septon Quay explained that the monastery had been dilapidated even before the war of the Five Kings; but that the ragtag monks had secured the underground granaries and cellars as an inn for weary visitors, especially for the Begging Brothers and the Poor Fellows who were fond travellers. The only requirement for shelter was some means of labour.

Jon shrugged, his brow knotted, "What of the outside? How do you hear of the outside at all?"

"You would think that living underground would render us blind and deaf to Westeros, but it is not so. We have ravens, we have feet and ears and eyes, and a mind to see and feel the wars just as you do. And since we take in strangers as yourself, we've heard more of Westeros than when we were begging."

This piqued Jon's interest. "Like rumours?"

"And all sorts," said the Septon. At Jon's silence the large man continued, "The Others moving south despite the dragons, the wildlings as well, things like that."

This concerned Jon. He knew that during Daenerys reclamation, the dragons had proven the strongest point against any Lannister army. They had burned through factions and scarred the land, and the Dothraki and Unsullied flanked and overpowered the already ragtag armies of any Westeros house. The Dragonfire had kept the Others at bay for a little while, but now they trickled into the kingdom, appearing and disappearing in the mists of cold. _Why?_

"Tell me bits and pieces, I've probably heard some of them before," Jon said.

"Warbands and outlaws still roam the streets, despite the peace," the Septon noted, as if reciting, "Many simplefolk are dying in sickbeds as well as by blade. A little less cold in King's Landing, so mostly talk of rebuilding. I hear the Silver Queen is nursing a sickness, and that the dragons have sought greener pastures in Maidenpool. We've heard the Cripple King turns into a large wolf-bear when he is upset." He shrugged, "It doesn't startle people as it ought, but I suppose nothing can startle people after dragons."

He stopped, hesitating, then looked Jon in the eye.

"And the queerest talk of all, recently. It comes from the north, from the Wall even, so perhaps you can shed some light to it."

" Castle Black has been abandoned," noted Jon, "The Crows are hunting the Others in the north. I've joined forces with the King of Winter and have been destroying what dark horde I can find. I haven't been to the Wall in years."

But the Septon was shaking his head, "The wildlings have been passing through too, in small groups. It is mostly their news."

Jon lowered his spoon, looking back up to the grave, dark face.

Septon Quay whispered, "Men claim of seeing a woman running naked in the snow, with a gem on her neck and blood spilling down her legs. Some say she runs with beasts; others say she eats them, or mates with them... " the Septon hesitated, "Have you... Have you heard such things?"

The recognition on Jon's face made the Septon's frown deepen. Jon swallowed, "The woman... did any of the men you know actually see her?"

"Many. The wildlings worship her, call her 'Kissed with Fire'. But it turns my blood to ice to hear of her."

It turned Jon's blood into ice, too.

After slaying Drogon and retreating from the war, Melisandre seemed to grow in power. She had been a powerful sorceress, and terrible; but she had bided her time so well that no one had seen her for years. But with these rumours...

Jon shook his head. There was also something else that curled the blood in his veins.

"And the creature that almost killed me? Did no one speak of that?" Jon wasn't sure if he visibly shuddered but he felt the chill all the same. The vision of the creatures' long faces seared into his memory now; black body a solid, heavy weight against him. He had screamed and thrashed and grabbed at it; had envisioned pale, screaming faces jutting in and out of the dark body; and he could distinctly recall the terror he felt when he realized that the shadow creature was made up of black human hair.

The Septon looked away, "That was the first time I had seen it."

Jon closed his eyes, placed his hands on the suddenly searing wound on his chest.

* * *

><p>Much to his frustration, they made Jon rest for two more days and it was on the third day that Jon decided he could no longer bide his time. Septon Quay had told him he was to meet with the royal retinue on the Kingsroad near Moat Cailin, and that knowledge only stirred Jon's impatience.<p>

"And if that were the case," Jon said, "Bran must already be on his way. We will have to leave tonight if we want to catch him on the Kingsroad."

It was growing late and except for the Septon and the monk, the hall was deserted; only the dusky afternoon sunlight brought color to the otherwise damp enclosure. The monk named Feral was standing next the Septon, looking gaunt in his hood and black leather mask, saying nothing. When Jon finished speaking however, he noticed that the mood changed.

Septon Quay glanced at the hooded Feral, and then back at Jon. He spoke.

"I'm sorry. I cannot allow you to leave. Your wound- that bite on your chest, it festers deeply. You are getting paler as we speak. We must let you rest until you are better. "

Jon could feel it throbbing as he listened. All throughout the day he found himself plagued with a fever that the monks couldn't soothe. Even now there was sweat on his brow, and his head was swimming. He hadn't the courage to look at the wound yet, but he figured that his allies in Winterfell, especially Jojen and Sam, would be able to do something about it.

"The travelling will be difficult, but I have ten good men and once we reach the Kingsroad my brother will take me the rest of the way."

The Septon closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. With a hand he signalled to Feral, and when Feral moved, Jon was surprised to see a large mace in the monk's hand, partially hidden within his cloak.

"You will not leave." said Septon Quay quietly.

Jon's hand immediately came to where the hilt of his sword should have been, but he was still in the monk's robe, unarmed. Jon stood up straighter despite the pain, and there was anger in his voice now, "You cannot detain the Lord Commander. I have a duty to attend to, and it involves the survival of the realm."

"How can the realm survive if its own leaders rush on blindly to their deaths? Those creatures took you... The wound on you is not natural, I must find a way to-"

"You? _You_?" Jon's found himself getting increasingly frustrated, "Holed up in here, finding ragtag orphans to work your labour, you will sit and wait in the dark to figure out what this is and how to stop it? _Cravens_!" Jon began marching straight for the Septon, "You spout some lectures for the realms' leaders while you hide away in your little monastery gathering rumours and fiddling your thumbs!"

And suddenly Feral drew towards him, swinging the mace. Jon was surprised that a man of the faith was so eager for bloodshed, but not surprised enough to get caught in the attack. He leapt aside, letting the mace miss his chest for a good number of paces. But Feral deftly slid his footing into a half circle, pivoting and bringing down the mace towards Jon's head again with ease.

Jon was a little less ready for that prowess, so his second leap aside made him roll across the floor gracelessly until he hit the foot of the dining table. The wound on his chest burned. He stood up, relying on the tabletop for some of his weight. Sweat started trickling down his cheek, and it was difficult to get enough air into his lungs. He felt so heavy.

"So instead of healing me you choose to kill me?" Jon spat out, trying to stall, to think of a way to escape, and then realizing why Septon Quay's face was taut with determination, "What, is it my wound? Do you think the infection will turn me into one of _them_?"

For an answer, Feral growled and thundered towards him. Jon barely ducked in time, and the monk's mace crashed into the old table like an explosion, breaking it into planks and chunks. Jon pulled at one of the table legs and feebly got ready for Feral's next strike, but then he heard Septon Quay's voice yelling, "Enough!"

Feral had already arched his mace for his next attack, but at that command he swung it harmlessly to his side and knelt down towards the Septon. Jon stood, breathing hard, armed with a length of wood. He held on to it tightly, knowing he was outmatched.

Septon Quay looked at him, and his dark face was worried, if not stern, "Yes, Commander. I am afraid of your wound, as I am afraid of the world outside."

Jon said nothing.

"And I am afraid that if I set you loose in Winterfell and you die, then Winterfell will die in your footsteps... That wound you bear gives you nightmares, delusions, a fever; and it spreads even as I try to bleed it out. Do you know it's color?"

Jon knew without even looking at it, "Black."

"And it is spreading towards your heart. I don't think you will survive long."

"So you will kill me, here and now?"

Septon Quay shook his head sadly, "Feral may see that as the only option, but I do not."

At that, Feral's masked face looked towards him, seemingly surprised. Jon glanced at him and at the great mace by his side, and then back at the Septon, who began to pace, fingers at the crook of his nose as if deliberating.

"But the Cripple King is a warlock," mumbled the Septon, "or those around him are. And your loyalty to your vows, to your brother... Your virtue is strong. I...I do not wish to harm an honourable man..I do not know the wiser path in this."

"The wisest choice is that we kill him," growled Feral relentlessly, "and we burn his body. The less we have of those Others is a safer world at large."

Jon was about to voice his dissent, but Septon Quay shook his head again, not wanting to hear any more.

"I apologize, Commander Snow. I have wronged you. Though you are feverish and weak, you are very much alive. I cannot kill one on the pretense that he may do a wrongdoing in the future. I must trust you in the same way I trust Feral."

By Feral's posture he didn't seem to agree, nor did he like being compared to. He seemed about to argue, but the Septon raised his dark hand to him, and continued, "Instead, as you leave the monastery, I must ask you to _take_ Feral with you." He gave a pointed look at the monk and continued, "he will watch your back and fight your battles. He will be with you day and night, just like Ghost, a watcher and a protector."

Jon stilled, his face hardening. Being watched over like a babe by the brutish monk who, not moments before, thought it would be a better idea to kill him?

Feral suddenly stood up, tightening his hold on his mace. He took a step forward and looked like he was about to protest, but with one glance from the Septon he hesitated.

Septon Quay looked back to Jon and said, "And when you die and rise again, it will be Feral's mace buried deep into your skull. That is my only condition."

Jon was silent, regarding him with a blank stare.

But Septon Quay left no room for argument, not even after Feral began yelling in protest, or when he smashed his mace onto the broken table until there was nothing left but dust.

* * *

><p>They decided to travel early the next morning, with loads of edible weed, a few dried fish and several jugs of water. Jon, Feral, and the ten troopsmen were to walk to the Kingsroad, which would take several difficult days. Ghost had started out ahead presumably to hunt, or check for danger.<p>

Septon Quay had come to him in the morning, waking him from a nightmare before treating his wounds and blessing him with a prayer of faith and vigilance. Jon was never really a man of the new gods, but he let him, just as he let the Septon apologize to him again. The large man had returned Longclaw and all his other belongings to Jon, who took it in grateful silence, although the weight of it bore him no easy trial. Jon was getting feverish again, and although he didn't mention it, he was sure the Septon knew.

The gate of the monastery bustled with activity as the men fitted back into their leather garbs, equipping various packs of food and water. They took with them their ratted cloaks, polished their swords and spun long oilcloths into long wood for torches. Some of the orphaned children who came to see them off were excited and boisterous, yelling loudly to be carried and to be hugged, some even begging for their weapons.

As Jon leaned against a tree, feeling heavy and sick, he saw Feral squatting by a field of flowers, encasing his mace and a bastard sword into self made leather straps. He had donned a traveller's outfit, all leather straps and steel, and now that he had no hood Jon could see streaks of white hair on a slightly balding head. He also noticed that those large hands, calloused and dirty, were also heavily scarred and burned.

The fight in the hall flashed across Jon's mind. Feral's precise steps forming what would be deft, swordsmanship finesse. The large frame and bulk on the arms, the swinging, the speed.

"Where did you learn to wield such things?" Jon asked him when he drew near, "I thought you monks were peaceful by nature." As Feral looked up, Jon glanced towards his mace, clean of blood and looking quite harmless in its straps.

He hadn't seen Feral since after his outburst in the hall. Jon had heard that the monk and the Septon had argued hours after Jon had returned to his room and for a long while Jon thought that Feral would never agree to being his companion. Which was just as well, because Jon never trusted the monk anyway. But Septon Quay must have said something worth hearing, because here Feral was, as silent as the grave. He was under Jon's command now, and although Jon felt that he would be obedient, he also knew he would not always be compliant.

So he was surprised to hear Feral's voice, rough and low and slightly restrained, "I had a life outside of this. Been dying when the monks found me." He gave a disconcerting laugh and added, "Tried to gut a brother with a knife when they were placing me on a cot. It's how I got my name."

Jon's wound began throbbing again, but he ignored it. Getting Feral to speak to him was an accomplishment itself, and may make the monk a little less thorny. Jon continued, "What was your name before?"

"Nothing too different. Wasn't a nice person."

Jon nodded, "Glad you got a new start, then."

Feral only laughed, "I'm still not a nice person."

Jon had nothing to say to that, and Feral didn't seem to want to add anything, so Jon began to move away. But he thought it over again, and turned back to Feral, stating, "You're a sworn brother now too. You have a purpose."

He watched as Feral stood, giving him a look, before taking the sheathed mace in his hand and strapping it onto himself. He stood a foot taller than Jon, and without his monk's garb he looked more threatening, even brutal. Feral didn't stalk towards him, but he did slide off his mask to throw it into the patch of wildflowers.

He looked like a monster of an old man. He had strings of white hair beginning at his hairline, his face was badly burned to one side, his nose crooked. His eyes haunted and angry.

"Names, " Feral snarled, "I had a whole bag of 'em, though granted the lot of them were swearwords. Back then, I was known as the Hound."

Jon frowned, not quite able to place the familiarity. He shook his head, "But that isn't a name. It's a title. Like the Bastard, or the Cripple King."

Feral shrugged, started walking towards the rest of the men, and Jon followed suit. It seemed that the conversation was ending, but then he heard the man growl, "Sandor. My name was Sandor Clegane."


End file.
